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Backlog Edition 


¥ 


THE COMPLETE WRITINGS OF 
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER 
EDITED BY 
THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY 


IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES 
VOLUME VII 


¥ 


‘el te 

















THE COMPLETE 
WRITINGS 
OF 


Charles Dudley Warner 


BEING A BOY 
ON HORSEBACK 





HARTFORD, CONN. 


he American Publishing Companp 
MCMIV 


COPYRIGHT 1877 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
COPYRIGHT 1888 BY CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER 


COPYRIGHT 1904 BY THE AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


<¢ Being a Boy’? and ‘* On Horseback’’ are included in 
this uniform edition of Charles Dudley Warner's Works under 
special arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


© | 


Gas 
WA Ar 
Ed. 190% 
Sit 
EDITOR’S NOTE 


EING A Boy was published at the end of Novem- 

ber, 1877. Portions of it had probably appeared 
previously in various periodicals, and possibly most of tt ; 
but with the exception of one chapter, which came out 
in the “St. Nicholas” for Fanuary, 1874, none of them 
have been traced. 

“On Horseback,” the record of a horseback ride in 
I884, taken mainly in the mountain region of North 
Carolina, came out originally in the “ Atlantic Monthly,” 
in three articles which appeared in the numbers for 
July, August, and September, 1885. In 1888 these were 
published in book form in conjunction with “ Mexican 
Notes” and “ The Golden Hesperides.” 

“ Mexican Notes” appeared originally in 1887 in 
“ Harper's Magazine,” in the numbers for the months 
of April to August, inclusive. 

“The Golden Hesperides” was originally published 
in the “Atlantic Monthly” in the number for Fanuary, 


IS88. 
6 Ces ing be 


wiBng . ,A DE 
‘ ele? ‘ , 


of Se Sie AON ae 
x GEN Nig 


Te 












BEING 


I. 
Il. 
Ill, 


IV. 


VI. 
VII. 
VIII. 


IX. 


XI. 
XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 
XV. 
XVI. 
XVII. 
XVIII. 


XIX. 


CONTENTS 


Ae BOY, 

BEING A BOY . ‘ : : 
THE BOY AS A FARMER : : 
THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING. A 


NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY ° 


THE BOY’S SUNDAY . 4 . 
THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE . ; 
FICTION AND SENTIMENT . : 


THE COMING. OF THANKSGIVING ° 
THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE ° 


FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE WORLD 


HOME INVENTIONS . : A 
THE LONELY FARMHOUSE . , 
JOHN’S FIRST PARTY . A 2 
THE SUGAR CAMP. : c 


THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND : 
JOHN’S REVIVAL 
WAR. : ry : : 
COUNTRY SCENES. : : 


A CONTRAST TO THE NEW ENGLAND BOY 


ON HORSEBACK ., : : : 


MEXICAN NOTES 


I, 


II. 


FROM EL PASO TO THE CITY OF MEXICO . 


CUAUTLA . ° ° . 


PAGE 


14 
19 
24 
30 


42 
48 
54 
59 
65 
72 


86 


93 
IOI 
112 


121 
131 


137 


261 
288 


1V CONTENTS 


III. COATEPEC 
IV. MORELIA AND PATZCUARO , 


V. TCZINTCZUNTCZAN — URUAPAN 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


- ESTO 
- 334 
“1350 


- 383 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PHOTOGRAVURES 
IN THE HAY-FIELD . Alice Barber Stephens FRONTISPIECE 
TURNING THE GRINDSTONE . : : : ear 40 
PLAYING SICK . : : : ; : ; AL EIG 


OUR PARTY : : ° ° , . , RAG 


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BEING A BOY 
I 


BEING A BOY 


NE of the best things in the world to be is 
() a boy; it requires no experience, though it 
needs some practice to be a good one. The 
disadvantage of the position is that it does not last 
long enough; it is soon over; just as you get used 
to being a boy, you have to be something else, with 
a good deal more work to do and not half so much 
fun. And yet every boy is anxious to be a man, 
and is very uneasy with the restrictions that are put 
upon him as a boy. Good fun as it is to yoke up 
the calves and play work, there is not a boy on a 
farm but would rather drive a yoke of oxen at real 
work. What a glorious feeling it is, indeed, when a 
boy is for the first time given the long whip and 
permitted to drive the oxen, walking by their side, 
swinging the long lash, and shouting “ Gee, Buck!” 
“Haw, Golden!” “Whoa, Bright!” and all the 
rest of that remarkable language, until he is red in 
the face, and all the neighbors for half a mile are 
aware that something unusual isgoingon. If I were | 
a boy, I am not sure but I would rather drive the 
oxen than have a birthday. 
The proudest day of my life was one day when I 


10 BEING A BOY 


~ rode on the neap of the cart, and drove the oxen, 


all alone, with a load of apples to the cider-mill. I 
was so little that it was a wonder that I didn’t fall 
off, and get under the broad wheels. Nothing could 
make a boy, who cared anything for his appearance, 
feel flatter than to be run over by the broad tire of 
a cart-wheel. But I never heard of one who was, 
and I don’t believe one ever will be. As I said, it 
was a great day for\me, but I don’t remember that 
the oxen cared much about it. They sagged along 
in their great clumsy way, switching their tails in my 
face occasionally, and now and then giving a lurch 
to this or that side of the road, attracted by a choice 
tuft of grass. And then I “came the Julius Cesar” 
over them, if you will allow me to use such a slang 
expression, a liberty I never should permit you. I 
don’t know that Julius Cesar ever drove cattle, 
though he must often have seen the peasants from 
the Campagna “haw” and “gee” them round the 
Forum (of course in Latin, a language that those 
cattle understood as well as ours do English); but 
what I mean is, that I stood up and “hollered” 
with all my might, as everybody does with oxen, as 
if they were born deaf, and whacked them with the 
long lash over the head, just as the big folks did 
when they drove. I think now that it was a cow- 
ardly thing to crack the patient old fellows over the 
face and eyes, and make them wink in their meek 
manner. If I am ever a boy again on a farm, I shall 
speak gently to the oxen, and not go screaming 
round the farm like a crazy man; and I shall not 
hit them a cruel cut with the lash every few minutes, 





BEING A BOY II 


because it looks big to do so and I cannot think of 
anything else to do. I never liked lickings myself, 
and I don’t know why an ox should like them, espe- 
cially as he cannot reason about the moral improve- 
ment he is to get out of them. 

Speaking of Latin reminds me that I once taught 
my cows Latin. I don’t mean that I taught them to 
read it, for it is very difficult to teach a cow to read 
Latin or any of the dead languages, — a cow cares 
more for her cud than she does for all the classics 
put together. But if you begin early, you can teach 
a cow, or a calf (if you can teach a calf anything, 


“which I doubt), Latin as well as English. There 


Pap! 


were ten cows, which I had to escort to and from 
pasture night and morning. To these cows I gave 
the names. of the Roman numerals, beginning with 
Unus and Duo, and going up to Decem. Decem 
was, of course, the biggest cow of the party, or at 
least she was the ruler of the others, and had the 
place of honor in the stable and everywhere else. I 
admire cows, and especially the exactness with which 
they define their social position. In this case, Decem 
could “lick”? Novem, and Novem could “lick” 
Octo, and so on down to Unus, who could n’t lick 
anybody, except her own calf. I suppose I ought to 
have called the weakest cow Una instead of Unus, 
considering her sex; but I didn’t care much to 
teach the cows the declensions. of adjectives, in 
which I was not very well up myself; and, besides, it 
would be of little use to a cow. People who devote 
themselves too severely to study of the classics are 
apt to become dried up; and you should never do 


12 BEING A BOY 


anything to dry up a cow. Well, these ten cows 
knew their names after a while, at least they ap- 
peared to, and would take their places as I called 
them. At least, if Octo attempted to get before 
Novem in going through the bars (I have heard 
people speak of a “ pair of bars” when there were 
six or eight of them), or into the stable, the matter 
of precedence was settled then and there, and, once 
settled, there was no dispute about it afterwards. 
Novem either put her horns into Octo’s ribs, and 
Octo shambled to one side, or else the two locked 
horns and tried the game of push and gore until one | 
gave up. Nothing is stricter than the etiquette of a 
party of cows. There is nothing in royal courts equal 
to it; rank is exactly settled, and the same individuals 
always have the precedence. You know that at Wind- 
sor Castle, if the Royal Three-Ply Silver Stick should 
happen to get in front of the Most Royal Double- 
and-T'wisted Golden Rod, when the court is going 
in to dinner, something so dreadful would happen 
that we don’t dare to think of it. It is certain that 
the soup would get cold while the Golden Rod was 
pitching the Silver Stick out of the Castle window 
into the moat, and perhaps the island of Great 
Britain itself would split in two. But the people are 

very careful that it never shall happen, so we shall — 
probably never know what the effect would be. 
Among cows, as I say, the question is settled in 
short order, and in a different manner from what it 
sometimes is in other society. It is said that in 
other society there is sometimes a great scramble for 
the first place, for the leadership, as it is called, and 


BEING A BOY 13 


that women, and men too, fight for what is called 
position; and in order to be first they will injure 
their neighbors by telling stories about them and 
by backbiting, which is the meanest kind of biting 
there is, not excepting the bite of fleas. But in cow 
society there is nothing of this detraction in order 
to get the first place at the crib, or the farther stall 
in the stable.~ If the question arises, the cows turn 
in, horns and all, and settle it with one square fight, 
and that ends it. I have often admired this trait in 
cows. | 

Besides Latin, I used to try to teach the cows a 
little poetry, and it is a very good plan. It does not 
do the cows much good, but it is very good exer- 
cise for a boy farmer. I used to commit to memory 
as good short poems as I could find (the cows liked 
to listen to “‘ Thanatopsis”’ about as well as anything), 
and repeat them when I went to the pasture, and as 
I drove the cows home through the sweet ferns and 
down the rocky slopes. It improves a boy’s elocu- 
tion a great deal more than driving oxen. 

It is a fact, also, that if a boy repeats “ Thanatop- 
sis ’’ while he is milking, that operation acquires a 
certain dignity. 


IT 


THE BOY AS A FARMER 


the current notions about farming were not so 
very different from those they entertain. What 
passes for laziness is very often an unwillingness to 
farm in a particular way. For instance, some morn- 
ing in early summer John is told to catch the sorrel 
mare, harness her into the spring wagon, and put in 
the buffalo and the best whip, for father is obliged 
to drive over to the “ Corners, to see a man” about 
some cattle, to talk with the road commissioner, to 
go to the store for the “women folks,” and to attend 
to other important business; and very likely he will 
not be back till sundown. It must be very press- 
ing business, for the old gentleman drives off in 
this way somewhere almost every pleasant day, and 
appears to have a great deal on his mind. 
Meantime, he tells John that he can play ball after 
he has done up the chores. As if the chores could 
ever be “done up” ona farm. He is first to clean 
out the horse-stable; then to take a bill-hook and 
cut down the thistles and weeds from the fence cor- 
ners in the home mowing-lot and along the road 
towards the village; to dig up the docks round the 
garden patch ; to weed out the beet-bed ; to hoe the 
early potatoes; to rake the sticks and leaves out of 
Cd 


B=: in general would be very good farmers if 


THE BOY AS A FARMER 16 


the front yard; in short, there is work enough laid 
out for John to keep him busy, it seems to him, till 
he comes of age; and at half an hour to sundown 
he is to go for the cows, and mind he don’t run’em! 

“< Yes, sir,” says John, “is that all?” 

“Well, if you get through in good season, you 
might pick over those potatoes in the cellar; they are 
sprouting; they ain’t fit to eat.” 

John is obliged to his father, for if there is any sort 
of chore more cheerful to a boy than another, on a 
pleasant day, it is rubbing the sprouts off potatoes in 
a dark cellar. And the old gentleman mounts his 
wagon and drives away down the enticing road, with 
the dog bounding along beside the wagon, and refus- 
ing to come back at John’s call. John half wishes he 
were the dog. The dog knows the part of farming 
that suits him. He likes to run along the road and 
see all the dogs and other people, and he likes best 
of all to lie on the store steps at the Corners — while 
his master’s horse is dozing at the post and his mas- 
ter is talking politics in the store — with the other 
dogs of his acquaintance, snapping at mutually 
annoying flies, and indulging in that delightful dog 
gossip which is expressed by a wag of the tail and a 
sniff of the nose. Nobody knows how many dogs’ 
characters are destroyed in this gossip, or how a dog 
may be able to insinuate suspicion by a wag of the tail 
as a man can by ashrug of the shoulders, or sniff a 
slander as a man can suggest one by raising his eye- 
brows. 

John looks after the old gentleman driving off in 
state, with the odorous buffalo-robe and the new 


16 BEING A BOY 


whip, and he thinks that is the sort of farming he 
would like to do. And he cries after ‘his departing 
parent, — 

“ Say, father, can’t I go over to the farther pasture 
and salt the cattle?” John knows that he could spend 
half a day very pleasantly in going over to that pas- 
ture, looking for bird’s-nests and shying at red squir- 
rels on the way, and who knows but he might “see”’ 


a sucker in the meadow brook, and perhaps get a> 


“‘jab”’ at him with a sharp stick. He knows a hole 
where there is a whopper; and one of his plans in 
life is to go some day and snare him, and bring him 
homein triumph. It is therefore strongly impressed 
upon his mind that the cattle want salting. But his 
father, without turning his head, replies, — 

“No, they don’t need salting any more ’n you 
do!” And the old equipage goes rattling down the 
road, and John whistles his disappointment. When 
I was a boy on a farm, and I suppose it is so now, 
cattle were never salted half enough. 

John goes to his chores, and gets through the 
stable as soon as he can, for that must be done; but 
when it comes to the out-door work, that rather 
drags. There are so many things to distract the atten- 
tion, —a chipmunk in the fence, a bird on a near tree, 
and a hen-hawk circling high in the air over the barn- 
yard. John loses a little time in stoning the chip- 
munk, which rather likes the sport, and in watching 
the bird, to find where its nest is ; and he convinces 


Mi 


himself that he ought to watch the hawk, lest it © 


pounce upon the chickens, and therefore, with an 
easy conscience, he spends fifteen minutes in halloo- 


THE BOY AS A FARMER 17 


ing to that distant bird, and follows it away out of 
sight over the woods, and then wishes it would come 
back again. And then a carriage with two horses, 
and a trunk on behind, goes along the road; and 
there is a girl in the carriage who looks out at John, 
who is suddenly aware that his trousers are patched 
on each knee and in two places behind; and he 
wonders if she is rich, and whose name is on the 
trunk, and how much the horses cost, and whether 
that nice-looking man 1s the girl’s father, and if that 
boy on the seat with the driver is her brother, and 
if he has to do chores; and as the gay sight disap- 
pears, John falls to thinking about the great world 
beyond the farm, of cities, and people who are al- 
ways dressed up, and a great many other things of 
which he has a very dim notion. And then a boy, 
whom John knows, rides by in a wagon with his 
father, and the boy makes a face at John, and John 
returns the greeting with a twist of his own visage 
and some symbolic gestures. All these things take 
time. The work of cutting down the big weeds gets 
on slowly, although it is not very disagreeable, or 
would not be if it were play. John imagines that 
yonder big thistle is some whiskered villain, of whom 
he has read in a fairy book, and he advances on him 
with “ Die, rufhan!” and slashes off his head with 
the bill-hook; or he charges upon the rows of mul- 
lein-stalks as if they were rebels in regimental ranks, 
and hews them down without mercy. What fun it 
might be if there were only another boy there to 
help. But even war, single handed, gets to be tire- 


some. It is dinner-time before John finishes the 
2 


18 BEING A BOY 


weeds, and it is cow-time before John has made 
much impression on the garden. 

This garden John has no fondness for. He would 
rather hoe corn all day than work in it. Father 
seems to think that it is easy work that John can 
do, because it is near the house! John’s continual 
plan in this life is to go fishing. When there comes 
a rainy day, he attempts to carry it out. But ten 
chances to one his father has different views. As it 
rains so that work cannot be done out-doors, it is a 
good time to work in the garden. He can run into 
the house between the heavy showers. John accord- 
ingly detests the garden ; and the only time he works 
briskly in it is when he has a stent set, to do so 
much weeding before the Fourth of July. If he is 
spry, he can make an extra holiday the Fourth and” 
the day after. Two days of gunpowder and ball- 
playing! When I was a boy, I supposed there was 
some connection between such and such an amount 
of work done on the farm and our national freedom. 
I doubted if there could be any Fourth of July if 
my stent was not done. I, at least, worked for my 
Independence. 


Ill 


THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING 


hea are so many bright spots in the life 
of a farm-boy, that I sometimes think I 
should like to live the life over again; I 
should almost be willing to be a girl if it were not for 
the chores. There is a great comfort to a boy in the 
amount of work he can get rid of doing. It is some- 
times astonishing how slow he can go on an errand, 
—he who leads the school in a race. The world 
is new and interesting to him, and there is so much 
to take his attention off, when he is sent to do any- 
thing. Perhaps he himself could n’t explain why, 
when he is sent to the neighbor’s after yeast, he stops 
to stone the frogs; he is not exactly cruel, but he 
wants to see if he can hit em. No other living thing 
can go so slow as a boy sent onan errand. His legs 
seem to be lead, unless he happens to espy a wood- 
chuck in an adjoining lot, when he gives chase to it 
like a deer; and it is a curious fact about boys, that 
two will be a great deal slower in doing anything 
than one, and that the more you have to help on a 
piece of work the less is accomplished. Boys have a 
great power of helping each other to do nothing; and 
they are so innocent about it, and unconscious. “I 
went as quick as ever I could,” says the boy: his 


father asks him why he did n’t stay all night, when he 


20 BEING A BOY 


has been absent three hours on a ten-minute errand. 
The sarcasm has no effect on the boy. 

Going after the cows wasa serious thing in my day. 
I had to climb a hill, which was covered with wild 
strawberries in the season. Could any boy pass by 
those ripe berries ? And then in the fragrant hill pas- 
ture there were beds of wintergreen with red berries, 
tufts of columbine, roots of sassafras to be dug, and 
dozens of things good to eat or to smell, that I could 
not resist. It sometimes even lay in my way to climb 
a tree to look for a crow’s nest, or to swing in the 
top, and to try if I could see the steeple of the village 
church. It became very important sometimes for me 
to see that steeple; and in the midst of my inves- 
tigations the tin horn would blow a great blast from 
the farmhouse, which would send a cold chill down 
my back in the hottest days. I knew what it meant. 
It had a frightfully impatient quaver in it, not at all 
like the sweet note that called us to dinner from the 
hay-field. It said, “‘ Why on earth doesn’t that boy 
come home? It is almost dark, and the cows ain’t 
milked!” And that was the time the cows had to 
start into a brisk pace and make up for lost time. I 
wonder if any boy ever drove the cows home late, 
who did not say that the cows were at the very far- 
ther end of the pasture, and that “‘ Old Brindle” was 
hidden in the woods, and he could n’t find her for 
ever so long! The brindle cow is the math scape- 
goat, many a time. 

No other boy knows how to appreceam a holiday 
as the farm-boy does; and his best ones are of a 
peculiar kind. Going fishing is of course one sort. 


THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING a1 


The excitement of rigging up the tackle, digging 
the bait, and the anticipation of great luck! These are 
pure pleasures, enjoyed because they are rare. Boys 
who can go a-fishing any time care but little for it. 
Tramping all day through bush and brier, fighting 
flies and mosquitoes, and branches that tangle the line, 
and snags that break the hook, and returning home 
late and hungry, with wet feet and a string of speckled 
trout on a willow twig, and having the family crowd 
out at the kitchen door to look at ’em, and say, 
“« Pretty well done for you, bub; did you catch that 
big one yourself? ’’ —this is also pure happiness, the 
like of which the boy will never have again, not if he 
comes to be selectman and deacon and to “ keep 
store.” 

But the holidays I recall with delight were the 
two days in spring and fall, when we went to the dis- 
tant pasture-land, in a neighboring town, maybe, to 
drive thither the young cattle and colts, and to bring 
them back again. It was a wild and rocky upland 
where our great pasture was, many miles from home, 
the road to it running by a brawling river, and up a 
dashing brookside among great hills. What a day’s 
adventure it was! It was likea journey to Europe. 
The night before, I could scarcely sleep for thinking 
of it, and there was no trouble about getting me up 
at sunrise that morning. The breakfast was eaten, the 
luncheon was packed in a large basket, with bottles 
of root beer and a jug of switchel, which packing I 
superintended with the greatest interest ; and then 
the cattle were to be collected for the march, and 


the horses hitched up. Did I shirk any duty? Was 


22 BEING A BOY 


I slow? I think not. I was willing to run my legs off 
after the frisky steers, who seemed to have an idea 
they were going on a lark, and frolicked about, dash- 
ing into all gates, and through all bars except the 
right ones; and how cheerfully I did yell at them ! 
It was a glorious chance to “holler,” and I have 
never since heard any public speaker on the stump 
or at camp-meeting who could make more noise. I 
have often thought it fortunate that the amount of 
- noise in a boy does not increase in proportion to 
his size; if it did, the world could not contain it. 
The whole day was full of excitement and of free- 
dom. We were away from the farm, which toa boy 
is one of the best parts of farming; we saw other 
farms and other people at work; I had the pleasure 
of marching along, and swinging my whip, past boys 


whom I knew, who were picking up stones. Every ~ 


turn of the road, every bend and rapid of the river, 
the great bowlders by the wayside, the watering- 
troughs, the giant pine that had been struck by light- 
ning, the mysterious covered bridge over the river 
where it was most swift and rocky and foamy, the 
chance eagle in the blue sky, the sense of going some- 
where, — why, as I recall all these things I feel that 
even the Prince Imperial, as he used to dash on horse- 
back through the Bois de Boulogne, with fifty mounted 
hussars clattering at his heels, and crowds of people 
cheering, could not have been as happy as was I, a 
boy in short jacket and shorter pantaloons, trudging 
in the dust that day behind the steers and colts, crack- 
ing my black-stock whip. 

I wish the journey would never end; butat last, 


THE DELIGHTS OF FARMING 23 


by noon, we reach the pastures and turn in the herd; 
and after making the tour of the lots to make sure 
there are no breaks in the fences, we take our lunch- 
eon from the wagon and eat it under the trees by 
the spring. This is the supreme moment of the day. 
This is the way to live; this is like the Swiss Family 
Robinson, and all the rest of my delightful acquaint- 
ances inromance. Baked beans, rye-and-indian bread 
, (moist, remember), doughnuts and cheese, pie, and 
Noe beer. What richness! You may live to dine 

bee Delmonico’s, or, if- those Frenchmen do not eat 
each other up, at Philippe’s, in Rue Montorgueil in 
Paris, where the dear old Thackeray used to eat as 
good a dinner as anybody; but you will get there 
neither doughnuts, nor pie, nor root beer, nor any- 
thing so good as that luncheon at noon in the old 
pasture, high among the Massachusetts hills! Nor 
will you ever, if you live to be the oldest boy in 
the world, have any holiday equal to the one I have 
described. But I always regretted that I did not 
take along a fishline, just to “‘ throw in” the brook 
we passed. I know there were trout there. 


IV 


NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 


of boys, it is my impression that a farm with- 

out a boy would very soon come to grief. 
What the boy does is the life of the farm. He is 
the factotum, always in demand, always expected to 
do the thousand indispensable things that nobody 
else will do. Upon him fall all the odds and ends, 
the most difficult things. After everybody else is 
through, he has to finish up. His work is like a 
woman’s, — perpetual waiting on others. Everybody 
knows how much easier it is to eat a good dinner 
than it is to wash the dishes afterwards. Consider 
what a boy on a farm is required to do; things that 
must be done, or life would actually stop. 

It is understood, in the first place, that he is to 
do all the errands, to go to the store, to the post 
office, and to carry all sorts of messages. If he had 
as many legs as a centipede, they would tire before 
night. His two short limbs seem to him entirely 
inadequate to the task. He would like to have as 
many legs as a wheel has spokes, and rotate about 
in the same way. This he sometimes tries to do; and 
people who have seen him “turning cart-wheels” 
along the side of the road have supposed that he was 
amusing himself, and idling his time; he was only — 


Ge what you will about the general usefulness 


NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 25 


trying to invent a new mode of locomotion, so that 
he could economize his legs and do his errands with 
greater dispatch. He practices standing on his head, 
in order to accustom himself to any position. Leap- 
frog is one of his methods of getting over the ground 
quickly. He would willingly go an errand any 
distance if he could leap-frog it with a few other 
boys. He has a natural genius for combining plea- 
sure with business. This is the reason why, when 
he is sent to the spring for a pitcher of water, and 
the family are waiting. at the dinner-table, he is ab- 
sent so long; for he stops to poke the frog that sits 
on the stone, or, if there is a penstock, to put his 
hand over the spout and squirt the water a little 
while. He is the one who spreads the grass when 
the men have cut it; he mows it away in the barn ; 
he rides the horse to cultivate the corn, up and 
down the hot, weary rows ; he picks up the potatoes 
when they are dug; he drives the cows night and 
morning; he brings wood and water and splits 
kindling ; he gets up the horse and puts out the 
horse ; whether he is in the house or out of it, there 
is always something for him to do. Just before 
school in winter he shovels paths; in summer 
he turns the grindstone. He knows where there are 
lots of wintergreens and sweet flag-root, but instead 
of going for them, he is to stay in-doors and pare 
apples and stone raisins and pound something in a 
mortar. And yet, with his mind full of schemes 
of what he would like to do, and his hands full of 
occupations, he is an idle boy who has nothing to 
busy himself with but school and chores! He 


26 BEING A BOY 


would gladly do all the work if somebody else would 
do the chores, he thinks, and yet I doubt if any boy 
ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of 
much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advan- 
tages of a liberal education in the way of chores. 

A boy on a farm is nothing without his pets; at 
least a dog, and probably rabbits, chickens, ducks, 
and guinea-hens. A guinea-hen suits a boy. It is 
entirely useless, and makes a more disagreeable noise 
thana Chinese gong. I once domesticated a young fox 
which a neighbor had caught. It is a mistake to sup- 


pose the fox cannot be tamed. Jacko wasa very clever | 


little animal, and behaved, in all respects, with pro- 
priety. He kept Sunday as well as any day, and all 
the ten commandments that he could understand. 
He was a very graceful playfellow, and seemed to 
have an affection for me. He lived in a wood-pile 
in the dooryard, and when I lay down at the entrance 
to his house and called him, he would come out and 
sit on his tail and lick my face just like a grown per- 
son. I taught him a great many tricks and all the 
virtues. That year I had a large number of hens, 
and Jacko went about among them with the most 
perfect indifference, never looking on them to lust 
after them, as I could see, and never touching an egg 
or a feather. So excellent was his reputation that I 
would have trusted him in the hen-roost in the dark 
without counting the hens. In short, he was domes- 
ticated, and I was fond of him and very proud of 
him, exhibiting him to all our visitors as an example 
of what affectionate treatment would do in subduing 
the brute instincts. I preferred him to my dog, whom 


et 


NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 2 


I had, with much patience, taught to go up a long hill 
alone and surround the cows, and drive them home 
from the remote pasture. He liked the fun of it at 
first, but by and by he seemed to get the notion that 
it was a “chore,” and when I whistled for him to go 
for the cows, he would turn tail and run the other 
way, and the more I whistled and threw stones at 
him, the faster he would run. His name was Turk, 
and I should have sold him if he had not been the 
kind of dog that nobody will buy. I suppose he was 
not a cow-dog, but what they call a sheep-dog. At 
least, when he got big enough, he used to get into 
the pasture and chase the sheep to death. That was 
the way he got into trouble, and lost his valuable 
life. A dog is of great use ona farm, and that is the 
~ reason a boy likes him. He is good to bite peddlers 
and small children, and run out and yelp at wagons 
that pass by, and to howl all night when the moon 
shines. And yet, if I were a boy again, the first thing 
I would have should be a dog; for dogs are great 
companions, and as active and spry as a boy at doing 
nothing. They are also good to bark at woodchuck- 
holes. 

A good dog will bark at a woodchuck-hole long 
after the animal has retired to a remote part of his 
residence, and escaped byanother hole. This deceives 
the woodchuck. Some of the most delightful hours 
of my life have been spent in hiding and watching 
the hole where the dog was not. What an exquisite 
thrill ran through my frame when the timid nose ap- 
peared, was withdrawn, poked out again, and finally 
followed by the entire animal, who looked cautiously 


28 BEING A BOY 


about, and then hopped away to feed on the clover. 
At that moment I rushed ‘in, occupied the “ home 
base,” yelled to Turk, and then danced with delight 
at the combat between the spunky woodchuck and 
the dog. They were about the same size, but science 
and civilization won the day. I did not reflect then 
that it would have been more in the interest of civil- 
ization if the woodchuck had killed the dog. I do not 
know why it is that boys so like to hunt and kill 
animals ; but the excuse that I gave in this case for 
the murder was, that the woodchuck ate the clover 
and trod it down, and, in fact, was a woodchuck. 
It was not till long after that I learned with surprise 
that he is a rodent mammal, of the species Arctomys 
monax, is called at the West a ground-hog, and is 
eaten by people of color with great relish. 

But I have forgotten my beautiful fox. Jacko 
continued to deport himself well until the young 
chickens came; he was actually cured of the fox vice 
of chicken-stealing. He used to go with me about 
the coops, pricking up his ears in an intelligent man- 
ner, and with a demure eye and the most virtuous 
droop of the tail. Charming fox! If he had held out 
a little while longer, I should have put him into a 
Sunday-school book. But I began to miss chickens. 
They disappeared mysteriously in the night. I 
would not suspect Jacko at first, for he looked so 
honest, and in the daytime seemed to be as much 
interested in the chickens as I was. But one morn- 
ing, when I went to call him, I found feathers at the » 
entrance of his hole, — chicken feathers. He could n’t 
deny it. He was a thief. His fox nature had come 


NO FARMING WITHOUT A BOY 29 


out under severe temptation. And he died an un- 
natural death. He had a thousand virtues and one 
crime. But that crime struck at the foundation of 
society. He deceived and stole; he was a liar anda 
thief, and no pretty ways could hide the fact. His 
intelligent, bright face could n’t save him. If he had 
been honest, he might have grown up to bea large, 
ornamental fox. 


Vv 
THE BOY'S SUNDAY 


to begin Saturday night at sundown; and 

the sun is lost to sight behind the hills there 
before it has set by the almanac. I remember that 
we used to go by the almanac Saturday night and by 
the visible disappearance Sunday night. On Saturday 
night we very slowly yielded to the influences of the 
holy time, which were settling down upon us, and 
submitted to the ablutions which were as inevitable 
as Sunday; but when the sun (and it never moved 
so slow) slid behind the hills Sunday night, the effect 
upon the watching boy was like a shock from a gal- 
vanic battery ; something flashed through all his limbs 
and set them in motion, and no “ play” ever seemed 
so sweet to him as that between sundown and dark 
Sunday night. This, however, was on the supposition 
that he had conscientiously kept Sunday, and had not 
gone in swimming and got drowned. This keeping 
of Saturday night instead of Sunday night we did not 
very well understand ; but it seemed, on the whole, 
a good thing that we should rest Saturday night when 
we were tired, and play Sunday night when we were 
rested. I supposed, however, that it was an arrange- 
ment made to suit the big boys who wanted to go 
“courting ’’ Sunday night. Certainly they were not 


G © ban in the New England hill towns used 


THE BOY’S SUNDAY 31 
to be blamed, for Sunday was the day when pretty 


girls were most fascinating, and I have never since 

seen any so lovely as those who used to sit in the 

gallery and in the singers’ seats in the bare old meet- 
. ing-houses. 

Sunday to the country farmer-boy was hardly the 
relief that it was to the other members of the family; 
for the same chores must be done that day as on 
others, and he could not divert his mind with whis- 
tling, hand-springs, or sending the dog into the river 
after sticks. He had to submit, in the first place, to 
the restraint of shoes and stockings. He read in the 
Old Testament that when Moses cameto holy ground, 
he put off his shoes ; but the boy was obliged to put 
his on, upon the holy day, not only to go to meeting, 
but while he sat at home. Only the emancipated 
country-boy, who is as agile on his bare feet as a 
young kid, and rejoices in the pressure of the warm 
soft earth, knows what a hardship it is to tie on stiff 
shoes. The monks who put peas in their shoes as a 
penance do not suffer more than the country-boy in 
his penitential Sunday shoes. I recall the celerity 
with which he used to kick them off at sundown. 

Sunday morning was not an idle one for the farmer- 
boy. He must rise tolerably early, for the cows were 
to be milked and driven to pasture; family prayers 

—were a little longer than on other days; there were 
the Sunday-school verses to be relearned, for they 
did not stay in mind over night; perhaps the wagon 
was to be greased before the neighbors began to 
drive by; and the horse was to be caught out of 
the pasture, ridden home bareback, and harnessed. 


32 BEING A BOY 


This catching the horse, perhaps two of them, was 
very good fun usually, and would have broken the 
Sunday if the horse had not been wanted for taking 
the family to meeting. It was so peaceful and still in 
the pasture on Sunday morning ; but the horses were 
never so playful, the colts never so frisky. Round 
and round the lot the boy went calling, in an entreat- 
ing Sunday voice, “ Jock, jock, jock, jock,” and shak- 
ing his salt-dish, while the horses, with heads erect, 
and shaking tails and flashing heels, dashed from 
corner to corner, and gave the boy a pretty good race 
before he could coax the nose of one of them into his 
dish. The boy got angry, and came very near saying 
“dum it,” but he rather enjoyed the fun, after all. 
The boy remembers how his mother’s anxiety was 
divided between the set of his turn-over collar, the 
parting of his hair, and his memory of the Sunday- 
school verses; and what a wild confusion there was 
through the house in getting off for meeting, and how 
he was kept running hither and thither, to get the 
hymn-book, or a palm-leaf fan, or the best whip, or 
to pick from the Sunday part of the garden the bunch 
of caraway-seed. Already the deacon’s mare, with a | 
wagon-load of the deacon’s folks, had gone shambling 
past, head and tail drooping, clumsy hoofs kicking 
up clouds of dust, while the good deacon sat jerking 
the reins, in an automatic way, and the “ women- 
folks”’ patiently saw the dust settle upon their best 
summer finery. Wagon after wagon went along the 
‘sandy road, and when our boy’s family started, they 
became part of a long procession, which sent up a 
mile of dust and a pungent, if not pious smell of 


WHE BOY’S SUNDAY RK 


buffalo-robes. There were fiery horses in the train 
which had to be held in, for it was neither etiquette 
nor decent to pass anybody on Sunday. It was a great 
delight to the farmer-boy to see all this procession 
of horses, and to exchange sly winks with the other 
boys, who leaned over the wagon-seats for that pur- 
pose. Occasionally a boy rode behind, with his back 
to the family, and his pantomime was always some- 
thing wonderful to see, and was considered very dar- 
ing and wicked. 

The meeting-house which our boy remembers was 
a high, square building, without a steeple. Within, 
it had a lofty pulpit, with doors underneath and 
closets where sacred things were kept, and where the 
tithing-men were supposed to imprison bad boys. 
The pews were square, with seats facing each other, 
those on one side Jow for the children, and all with 
hinges, so that they could be raised when the con- 
gregation stood up for prayers and leaned over the 
backs of the pews, as horses meet each other across a 
pasture fence. After prayers these seats used to be 
slammed down with a long-continued clatter, which 
seemed to the boys about the best part of the exer- 
cises. The galleries were very high, and the singers’ 
seats, where the pretty girls sat, were the most con- 
spicuous of all. To sit in the gallery away from 
the family, was a privilege not often granted to the 
boy. The tithing-man, who carried a long rod and 
kept order in the house, and out-doors at noon- 
time, sat in the gallery, and visited any boy who 
whispered or found curious passages in the Bible 
and showed them to another boy. It was an awful 

3 


34 BEING A BOY 


moment when the bushy-headed tithing-man ap- 
proached a boy in sermon-time. The eyes of the 
whole congregation were on him, and he could feel 
the guilt ooze out of his burning face. 

At noon was Sunday-school, and after that, be- 
fore the afternoon service, in summer, the boys had 
a little time to eat their luncheon together at the 
watering-trough, where some of the elders were 
likely to be gathered, talking very solemnly about 
cattle; or they went over to a neighboring barn to 
see the calves; or they slipped off down the road- 
side to a place where they could dig sassafras or the 
root of the sweet-flag,— roots very fragrant in the 
mind of many a boy with religious associations to 
this day. There was often an odor of sassafras in 
the afternoon service. It used to stand in my mind 
as a substitute for the Old Testament incense of the 
Jews. Something in the same way the big bass-viol 
in the choir took the place of “ David’s harp of 
solemn sound.” 

The going home from meeting was more cheerful 
and lively than the coming to it. There was all the 
bustle of getting the horses out of the sheds and» 
bringing them round to the meeting-house steps. 
At noon the boys sometimes sat in the wagons and 
swung the whips without cracking them: now it was 
permitted to give them a little snap in order to 
bring the horses up in good style; and the boy was 
rather proud of the horse if it pranced a little while 
the timid “women-folks” were trying to get in. 
The boy had an eye for whatever life and stir there’, 
was ina New England Sunday. He liked to drive 


THE BOY’S SUNDAY 35 


home fast. The old house and the farm looked 
pleasant to him. There was an extra dinner when 
they reached home, and a cheerful consciousness of 
duty performed made it a pleasant dinner. Long 
before sundown the Sunday-school book had been 
read, and the boy sat waiting in the house with great 
impatience the signal that the “day of rest” was 
» over. A boy may not be very wicked, and yet not 
see the need of “rest.’’ Neither his idea of rest nor 
work is that of older farmers. 


VI 


THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE 


hardens the lot of the farmer-boy, it is the 
grindstone. Turning grindstones to grind 
scythes is one of those heroic but unobtrusive occu- 
pations for which one gets no credit. It is a hope- 
less kind of task, and, however faithfully the crank 
is turned, it is one that brings little reputation. 
There is a great deal of poetry about haying — I 
mean for those not engaged in it. One likes to hear 
the whetting of the scythes on a fresh morning and 
the response of the noisy bobolink, who always sits 
upon the fence and superintends the cutting of the 
dew-laden grass. There is a sort of music in the 
“swish” and a rhythm in the swing of the scythes 
in concert. The boy has not much time to attend 
to it, for it is lively business “spreading” after half ., 
a dozen men who have only to walk along and lay 
the grass low, while the boy has the whole hay-field 
on his hands. He has little time for the poetry of 
haying, as he struggles along, filling the air with the 
wet mass which he shakes over his head, and pick- 
ing his way with short legs and bare feet amid the 
short and freshly cut stubble. 
But if the scythes cut well and swing merrily, it 
is due to the boy who turned the grindstone. Oh, it 


|: there is one thing more than another that 








} 
: 
‘ 
Fl 
| 








ee sRINDSTONES OR LIFE § 37 


was nothing to do, just turn the grindstone a few 
minutes for this and that one before breakfast ; any 
“hired man” was authorized to order the boy to 
turn the grindstone. How they did bear on, those 
great strapping fellows! Turn, turn, turn, what a 
weary go it was. For my part, I used to like a 
grindstone that “‘ wabbled”’ a good deal on its axis, 
for when I turned it fast, it put the grinder on a 
lively lookout for cutting his hands, and entirely 
satisfied his desire that I should “turn faster.” It 
was some sport to make the water fly and wet the 
grinder, suddenly starting up quickly and surprising 
him when I was turning very slowly. I used to wish 
sometimes that I could turn fast enough to make 
the stone fly into a dozen pieces. Steady turning is 
what the grinders like, and any boy who turns steadily, 
so as to give an even motion to the stone, will be 
much praised, and will be in demand. I advise any 
boy who desires to do this sort of work to turn 
steadily. If he does it by jerks and in a fitful man- 
ner, the “ hired men” will be very apt to dispense 
with his services and turn the grindstone for each 
other. 

This is one of the most disagreeable tasks of the 
boy farmer, and, hard as it is, I do not know why it 
is supposed to belong especially to childhood. But 
it is, and one of the certain marks that second child- 
hood has come to a man on a farm is, that he is asked 
to turn the grindstone as if he were a boy again. 
When the old man is good for nothing else, when 
he can neither mow nor pitch, and scarcely “rake 
after,” he can turn grindstone, and it is in this way 


38 BEING A BOY 


that he renews his youth. “ Ain’t you ashamed to 
have your granther turn the grindstone? ” asks the 
hired man of the boy. So the boy takes hold and 
turns himself, till his little back aches. When he gets 
older, he wishes he had replied, “ Ain’t you ashamed 
to make either an old man or a little boy do such 
hard grinding work?” 

Doing the regular work of this world is not much, 
the boy thinks, but the wearisome part is the waiting 
on the people who do the work. And the boy is not 
far wrong. This is what women and boys have to do 
on a farm, wait upon everybody who “ works.” The 
trouble with the boy’s life is, that he has no time that 
he can call his own. He is, like a barrel of beer, 
always on draft. The men-folks, having worked in 
the regular hours, lie down and rest, stretch them- 
selves idly in the shade at noon, or lounge about 
after supper. Then the boy, who has done nothing 
all day but turn grindstone, and spread hay, and 
rake after, and run his little legs off at everybody’s 
beck and call, is sent on some errand or some house- 
hold chore, in order that time shall not hang heavy 
on his hands. The boy comes nearer to perpetual ., 
motion than anything else in nature, only it is not 
altogether a voluntary motion. The time that the 
farm-boy gets for his own is usually at the end of a 
stent. We used to be given a certain piece of corn 
to hoe, or a certain quantity of corn to husk in so 
many days. If we finished the task before the time 
set, we had the remainder to ourselves. In my day 
it used to take very sharp work to gain anything, 
but we were always anxious to take the chance. I 


BHE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE 39 


think we enjoyed the holiday in anticipation quite as 
much as we did when we had won it. Unless it was 
training-day, or Fourth of July, or the circus was 
coming, it was a little difficult to find anything big 
enough to fill our anticipations of the fun we would 
have in the day or the two or three days we had 
earned. We did not want to waste the time on any 
common thing. Even going fishing in one of the 
wild mountain brooks was hardly up to the mark, 
for we could sometimes do that on a rainy day. Go- 
ing down to the village store was not very exciting, 
and was, on the whole, a waste of our precious time. 


Unless we could get out our military company, life » 


was apt to be a little blank, even on the holidays for 
which we had worked so hard. If you went to see 
another boy, he was probably at work in the hay-field 
or the potato-patch, and his father looked at you 
askance. You sometimes took hold and helped him, 
so that he could go and play with you; but it was 
usually time to go for the cows before the task was 
done. The fact is, or used to be, that the amuse- 
ments of a boy in the country are not many. Snar- 
ing “suckers”’ out of the deep meadow brook used 
to be about as good as any that I had. The North 
American sucker is not an engaging animal in all 
respects; his body is comely enough, but his mouth 
is puckered up like that of a purse. The mouth is 
not formed for the gentle angle-worm nor the delu- 
sive fly of the fishermen. It is necessary, therefore, 
to snare the fish if you want him. In the sunny days 
he lies in the deep pools, by some big stone or near 
the bank, poising himself quite still, or only stirring 


40 BEING A BOY 


his fins a little now and then, as an elephant moves 
his ears. He will lie so for hours, or rather float, in 
perfect idleness and apparent bliss. The boy who 
also has a holiday, but cannot keep still, comes along 
and peeps over the bank. “ Golly, ain’t he a big 
one!” Perhaps he is eighteen inches long, and 
weighs two or three pounds. He lies there among 
his friends, little fish and big ones, quite a school of 
them, perhaps a district school, that only keeps in 
warm days in the summer. The pupils seem to have 
little to learn, except to balance themselves and to 
turn gracefully with a flirt of the tail. Not much is 
taught but “‘deportment,” and some of the old suck- 
ers are perfect Turveydrops in that. The boy is 
armed with a pole and a stout line, and on the end 
of it a brass wire bent into a hoop, which is a slip- 
noose, and slides together when anything is caught 
in it. The boy approaches the bank and looks over. 
There he lies, calm as a whale. The boy devours 
him with his eyes. He is almost too much excited 
to drop the snare into the water without making a 
noise. A puff of wind comes and ruffles the surface, 
so that he cannot see the fish. It is calm again, and 
there he still is, moving his fins in peaceful security. 
The boy lowers his snare behind the fish and slips it 
along. He intends to get it around him just back of 
the gills and then elevate him with a sudden jerk. 
It is a delicate operation, for the snare will turn a 
little, and if it hits the fish, he is off. However, it 
goes well; the wire is almost in place, when suddenly 
the fish, as if he had a warning in a dream, for he 
appears to see nothing, moves his tail just a little, 


THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE 41 


glides out of the loop, and with no seeming appear- 
ance of frustrating any one’s plans, lounges over to 
the other side of the pool; and there he reposes just 
as if he was not spoiling the boy’s holiday. This 
slight change of base on the part of the fish requires 
the boy to reorganize his whole campaign, get a new 
position on the bank, a new line of approach, and 
patiently wait for the wind and sun before he can 
lower his line. This time, cunning and patience are 
rewarded. The hoop encircles the unsuspecting fish. 
The boy’s eyes almost start from his head as he gives 
a tremendous jerk, and feels by the dead-weight that 
he has got him fast. Out he comes, up he goes in 
the air, and the boy runs to look at him. In this 
transaction, however, no one can be more surprised 
than the sucker. 


Vil 


FICTION AND SENTIMENT 


Pr “AHE boy farmer does not appreciate school 
vacations as highly as his city cousin. When 
school keeps, he has only to “do chores 

and go to school,” but between terms there are 

a thousand things on the farm that have been left 

for the boy to do. Picking up stones in the pas- 

tures and piling them in heaps used to be one of 
them. Some lots appeared to grow stones, or else 


“the sun every year drew them to the surface, as it 


coaxes the round cantelopes out of the soft garden 
soil; it is certain that there were fields that always 
gave the boys this sort of fall work. And very lively 
work it was on frosty mornings for the barefooted 
boys, who were continually turning up the larger 


“stones in order to stand for a moment in the warm 


place that had been covered from the frost. A boy 
can stand on one leg as well as a Holland stork; ~ 
and the boy who found a warm spot for the sole of 
his foot was likely to stand in it until the words, 
“< Come, stir your stumps,” broke in discordantly 
upon his meditations. For the boy is very much 
given to meditations. If he had his way, he would 
do nothing in a hurry; he likes to stop and think 
about things, and enjoy his work as he goes along. 
He picks up potatoes as if each one were a lump of 


FICTION AND SENTIMENT 43 


gold just turned out of the dirt, and requiring care- 
ful examination. 

Although the country-boy feels a little joy when 
school breaks up (as he does when anything breaks 
up, or any change takes place), since he is released 
from the discipline and restraint of it, yet the school 
is his opening into the world,— his romance. Its 
opportunities for enjoyment are numberless. He 
does not exactly know what he is set at books for; 
he takes spelling rather as an exercise for his lungs, 
standing up and shouting out the words with entire 
recklessness of consequences ; he grapples doggedly 
with arithmetic and geography as something that 
must be cleared out of his way before recess, but not 
at all with the zest he would dig a woodchuck out 
of his hole. But recess! Was ever any enjoyment 
so keen as that with which a boy rushes out of the 
schoolhouse. door for the ten minutes of recess? 
He is like to burst with animal spirits ; he runs like 
a deer; he can nearly fly; and he throws himself 
into play with entire self-forgetfulness, and an energy 
that would overturn the world if his strength were 
proportioned to it. For ten minutes the world is 
absolutely his; the weights are taken off, restraints 
are loosed, and he is his own master for that brief 
time, —as he never again will be if he lives to be as 
old as the king of Thule,—and nobody knows how 
old he was. And there is the nooning, a solid hour, 
in which vast projects can be carried out which have 
been slyly matured during the school-hours: expe- 
ditions are undertaken ; wars are begun between the 
Indians on one side and the settlers on the other; 


44 BEING A BOY 


the military company is drilled (without uniforms // 


or arms), or games are carried on which involve 
miles of running, and an expenditure of wind sufh- 
cient to spell the spelling-book through at the high- 
est pitch. 

Friendships are formed, too, which are fervent, if 
not enduring, and enmities contracted which are fre- 
quently “ taken out”’ on the spot, after a rough fash- 
ion boys have of settling as they go along; cases of 
long credit, either in words or trade, are not frequent 
with boys; boot on jack-knives must be paid on 
the nail; and it is considered much more honorable 
to out with a personal grievance at once, even if the 
explanation is made with the fists, than to pretend 
fair, and then take a sneaking revenge on some con- 
cealed opportunity. The country-boy at the district 
school is introduced into a wider world than he 
knew at home, in many ways. Some big boy brings 
to school a copy of the Arabian Nights, a dog-eared 
copy, with cover, title-page, and the last leaves miss- 
ing, which is passed around, and slyly read under 
the desk, and perhaps comes to the little boy whose 
‘/parents disapprove of novel-reading, and have no 
work of fiction in the house except a pious fraud 
called ‘“‘ Six Months in a Convent,” and the latest 
comic almanac. The boy’s eyes dilate as he steals 
some of the treasures out of the wondrous pages, and 
he longs to lose himself in the land of enchantment 
open before him.’ He tells at home that he has seen 
the most wonderful book that ever was, and a big 
boy has promised to lend it to him. “Is it a true 
book, John?” asks the grandmother ; “ because, if 


‘a 


FICTION AND SENTIMENT 45 


it isn’t true, it is the worst thing that a boy can 
read.” (This happened years ago.) John cannot 
answer as to the truth of the book, and so does not 
bring it home; but he borrows it, nevertheless, and 
conceals it in the barn, and, lying in the hay-mow, is 
lost in its enchantments many an odd hour when 
he is supposed to be doing chores. There were no 
chores in the Arabian Nights; the boy there had - 
but to rub the ring and summon a genius, who © 
would feed the calves and pick up chips and bring 
in wood ina minute. It was through this emblazoned 
portal that the boy walked into the world of books, 
which he soon found was larger than his own, and 
filled with people he longed to know. 

And the farmer-boy is not without his sentiment 
and his secrets, though he has never been at a chil- 
dren’s party in his life, and, in fact, never has heard 
that children go into society when they are seven, 
and give regular wine-parties when they reach the 
ripe age of nine. But one of his regrets at having 
the summer school close is dimly connected with 
a little girl, whom he does not care much for, — 
would a great deal rather play with a boy than with | 
her at recess, — but whom he will not see again for 
some time,—da sweet little thing, who is very 
friendly with John, and with whom he has been 
known to exchange bits of candy wrapped up in 
paper, and for whom he cut in two his lead-pencil, 
and gave her half. At the last day of school she 
goes part way with John, and then he turns and 
goes a longer distance towards her home, so that it 
is late when he reaches his own. Is he late? -He 


46 BEING A BOY 


didn’t know he was late; he came straight home 
when school was dismissed, only going a little way 
home with Alice Linton to help her carry her books. 
In a box in his chamber, which he has lately put a 
padlock on, among fishhooks and lines and bait- 
boxes, odd pieces of brass, twine, early sweet apples, 
pop-corn, beechnuts, and other articles of value, are 
some little di/ets-doux, fancifully folded, three-cor- 
nered or otherwise, and written, I will warrant, in 
red or beautifully blue ink. These little notes are © 
parting gifts at the close of school, and John, no 
doubt, gave his own in exchange for them, though 
the writing was an immense labor, and the folding 
was a secret bought of another boy for a big piece 
of sweet flag-root baked in sugar, a delicacy which 
John used to carry in his pantaloons-pocket until 
his pocket was in such a state that putting his fin- 
gers into it was about as good as dipping them 
into the sugar-bowl at home. Each precious note 
contained a lock or curl of girl’s hair, —a rare col- 
lection of all colors, after John had been in school 
many terms, and had passed through a great many 
parting scenes, — black, brown, red, tow-color, and _ 
some that looked like spun gold and felt like silk. 
The sentiment contained in the notes was that which 
was common in the school, and expressed a mel- 
ancholy foreboding of early death, and a touching 
desire to leave hair enough this side the grave to 
constitute a sort of strand of remembrance. With 
little variation, the poetry that made the hair precious 
was in the words, and, as a Cockney would say, set 
to the hair, following : 


FICTION AND SENTIMENT 47 


«<' This lock of hair, 
Which I did wear, 
Was taken from my head; 
When this you see, 
Remember me, 
Long after I am dead.”’ 


John liked to read these verses, which always 
made a new and fresh impression with each lock of 
hair, and he was not critical; they were for him vehi- 
cles of true sentiment, and indeed they were what 
he used when he inclosed a clip of his own sandy 
hair to a friend. And it did not occur to him, until 
he was a great deal older and less innocent, to smile 
at them. John felt that he would sacredly keep 
every lock of hair intrusted to him, though death 
should come on the wings of cholera and take away 
every one of these sad, red-ink correspondents. 
When John’s big brother one day caught sight of 
these treasures, and brutally told him that he “ had 
hair enough to stuff a horse-collar,” John was so 
outraged and shocked, as he should have been, at 
this rude invasion of his heart, this coarse sugges- 
tion, this profanation of his most delicate feeling, 
that he was kept from crying only by the resolution 
to “lick” his brother as soon as ever he got big 
enough. 


VIll 


THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING 


NE of the best things in farming is gather- 
() ing the chestnuts, hickory-nuts, butternuts, 

and even beechnuts, in the late fall, after 
the frosts have cracked the husks and the high 
winds have shaken them, and the colored leaves 
have strewn the ground. On a bright October day, 
when the air is full of golden sunshine, there is 
nothing quite so exhilarating as going nutting. Nor // 
is the pleasure of it altogether destroyed for the boy 
by the consideration that he is making himself use- 
ful in obtaining supplies for the winter household. 
The getting-in of potatoes and corn is a different 
thing; that is the prose, but nutting is the poetry, 
of farm life. I am not sure but the boy would find 
it very irksome, though, if he were obliged to work 
at nut-gathering in order to procure food for the 
family. He is willing to make himself useful in his 
own way. The Italian boy, who works day after 
day at a huge pile of pine-cones, pounding and 
cracking them and taking out the long seeds, which 
are sold and eaten as we eat nuts (and which are 
almost as good as pumpkin-seeds, another favorite 
with the Italians), probably does not see the fun of 
nutting. Indeed, if the farmer-boy here were set at 
pounding off the walnut-shucks and opening the 


COMING OF THANKSGIVING § 49 


prickly chestnut-burs as a task, he would think him- 
self an ill-used boy. What a hardship the prickles 
in his fingers would be! But now he digs them out 
with his jack-knife, and enjoys the process, on the 
whole. The boy is willing to do any amount of 
work if it is called play. 

In nutting, the squirrel is not more nimble and 
industrious than the boy. I like to see a crowd of 
boys swarm over a chestnut-grove; they leave a 
desert behind them like the seventeen-year locusts. 
To climb a tree and shake it, to club it, to strip it 
of its fruit, and pass to the next, is the sport of a 
brief time. I have seen a legion of boys scamper 
over our grass-plot under the chestnut-trees, each 
one as active as if he were a new patent picking- 
machine, sweeping the ground clean of nuts, and 
disappear over the hill before I could go to the 
door and speak to them about it. Indeed, I have 
noticed that boys don’t care much for conversation 
with the owners of fruit-trees. They could speedily 
make their fortunes if they would work as rapidly 
in cotton-fields. I have never seen anything like it, 
except a flock of turkeys removing the grasshoppers 
from a piece of pasture. 

Perhaps it is not generally known that we get the 
idea of some of our best military maneuvers from 
the turkey. The deploying of the skirmish-line in 
advance of an army is one of them. The drum-major 
of our holiday militia companies is copied exactly 
from the turkey gobbler; he has the same splendid 
appearance, the same proud step, and the same mar- 
tial aspect. The gobbler does not lead his forces in 

4 


50 BEING A BOY 
the field, but goes behind them, like the colonel of a 


regiment, so that he can see every part of the line 
and direct its movements. This resemblance is one 
of the most singular things in natural history. I like 
to watch the gobbler maneuvering his forces in a 
grasshopper-field. He throws out his company of two 
dozen turkeys ina crescent-shaped skirmish-line, the 
number disposed at equal distances, while he walks 
majestically in the rear. They advance rapidly, pick- 
ing right and left, with military precision, killing the 
foe and disposing of the dead bodies with the same 
peck. Nobody has yet discovered how many grass- 
hoppers a turkey will hold; but he is very much like 
a boy at a Thanksgiving dinner, —he keeps on eat- 
ing as long as the supplies last. ‘The gobbler, in one 
of these raids, does not condescend to grab a single 
grasshopper, — at least, not while anybody is watch- 
ing him. But I suppose he makes up for it when 
his dignity cannot be injured by having spectators of 
his voracity ; perhaps he falls upon the grasshoppers 
when they are driven into a corner of the field. But 
he is only fattening himself for destruction ; like all 
greedy persons, he comes to a bad end. And if the 


turkeys had any Sunday-school, they would be taught °' 


this. 

The New England boy used to look forward to 
Thanksgiving as the great event of the year. He was 
apt to get stents set him,—so much corn to husk, 
for instance, before that day, so that he could have 
an extra play-spell ; and in order to gain a day or two, 
he would work at his task with the rapidity of half 
a dozen boys. He always had the day after Thanks- 


VN 


——— 


COMING OF THANKSGIVING — 51 


giving as a holiday, and this was the day he counted 
on. Thanksgiving itself was rather an awful festival, , 
—very much like Sunday, except for the enormous 
dinner, which filled his imagination for months be- 
fore as completely as it did his stomach for that day 
and a week after. There was an impression in the 
house that that dinner was the most important event 


/ since the landing from the Mayflower. Heliogabalus, 


who did not resemble a Pilgrim Father at all, but 
who had prepared for himself in his day some very 
sumptuous banquets in Rome, and ate a great deal 
of the best he could get (and liked peacocks stuffed 
with asafetida, for one thing), never had anything 
like a Thanksgiving dinner ; for do you suppose that 
he, or Sardanapalus either, ever had twenty-four dif- ., 
ferent kinds of pie at one dinner? Therein many a 
New England boy is greater than the Roman empe- 
ror or the Assyrian king, and these were among the 
most luxurious eaters of their day and generation. 
But something more is necessary to make good 
men than plenty to eat, as Heliogabalus no doubt 
found when his head was cut off. Cutting off the 
head was a mode the people had of expressing dis- 
approval of their conspicuous men. Nowadays they 
elect them to a higher office, or give them a mission 
to some foreign country, if they do not do well where 
they are. 

For days and days before Thanksgiving the boy 
was kept at work evenings, pounding and paring and 
cutting up and mixing (not being allowed to taste 
much), until the world seemed to him to be made of 
fragrant spices, green fruit, raisins, and pastry, —a 


52 BEING A BOY 


world that he was only yet allowed to enjoy through 


his nose. How filled the house was with the most — 


delicious smells! The mince-pies that were made! 
If John had been shut in solid walls with them piled 
about him, he could n’t have eaten his way out in four 
weeks. There were dainties enough cooked in those 
two weeks to have made the entire year luscious with 
good living, if they had been scattered along in it. 
But people were probably all the better for scrimping 
themselves a little in order to make this a great feast. 
And it was not by any means over inaday. There 
were weeks deep of chicken-pie and other pastry. 
The cold buttery was a cave of Aladdin, and it took 
a long time to excavate all its riches. 

Thanksgiving Day itself was a heavy day, the hilar- 
ity of it being so subdued by going to meeting, and 
the universal wearing of the Sunday clothes, that the 
boy could n’t see it. But if he felt little exhilaration, 
he ate a great deal. The next day was the real holi- 
day. Then were the merry-making parties, and per- 
haps the skatings and sleigh-rides, for the freezing 
weather came before the governor’s proclamation 


in many parts of New England. The night after 
Thanksgiving occurred, perhaps, the first real party — 


that the boy had ever attended;'with live girls in it, 
dressed so bewitchingly. And there he heard those 
philandering songs, and played those sweet games of 
forfeits, which put him quite beside himself, and kept 
him awake that night till the rooster crowed at the 
end of his first chicken-nap. What a new world did 
that party open to him! I think it likely that he 
saw there, and probably did not dare say ten words 


COMING OF THANKSGIVING _ 53 


to, some tall, graceful girl, much older than himself, 
who seemed to him like a new order of being. He 
could see her face just as plainly in the darkness of 
his chamber. He wondered if she noticed how awk- 
ward he was, and how short his trousers-legs were. 
He blushed as he thought of his rather ill-fitting 
shoes; and determined, then and there, that he 
wouldn’t be put off with a ribbon any longer, but 
would have a young man’s necktie. It was somewhat 
painful, thinking the party over, but it was delicious, 
too. He did not think, probably, that he would die 
for that tall, handsome girl; he did not put it exactly 
in that way. But he rather resolved to live for her, — 
which might in the end amount to the same thing. 
At least, he thought that nobody would live to speak 
twice disrespectfully of her in his presence. 


Ix 


THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE 


\ ), Y HAT John said was, that he didn’t care 
much for pumpkin-pie ; but that was after 
he had eaten a whole one. It seemed to 

him then that mince would be better. 

The feeling of a boy towards pumpkin-pie has 
never been properly considered. There is an air of 
festivity about its approach in the fall. The boy is 
willing to help pare and cut up the pumpkin, and he 
watches with the greatest interest the stirring-up pro- 
cess and the pouring into the scalloped crust. When | 
the sweet savor of the baking reaches his nostrils, he ~ 
is filled with the most delightful anticipations. Why 
should he not be? He knows that for months to 
come the buttery will contain golden treasures, and 
that it will require only a slight ingenuity to get at 
them. mi 

The fact is, that the boy is as good in the buttery 
as in any part of farming. His elders say that the 
boy is always hungry ; but that is a very coarse way 
to put it. He has only recently come into a world 
that is full of good things to eat, and there is, on 
the whole, a very short time in which to eat them; 
at least, he is told, among the first information he 
receives, that life is short. Life being brief, and pie 
and the like fleeting, he very soon decides upon an 


- 


THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE ‘655 


active campaign. It may be an old story to people 
who have been eating for forty or fifty years, but it 
is different with a beginner. He takes the thick and 
thin as it comes, as to pie, for instance. Some people: 
do make them very thin. I knew a place where they 
were not thicker than the poor man’s plaster; they 
were spread so thin upon the crust that they were 
better fitted to draw out hunger than to satisfy it. 
They used to be made up by the great oven-full and 
kept in the dry cellar, where they hardened and dried 
to a toughness you would hardly believe. This was 
a long time ago, and they make the pumpkin-pie in 
the country better now, or the race of boys would 
have been so discouraged that I think they would 
have stopped coming into the world. 

The truth is, that boys have always been so plenty 
that they are not half appreciated. We have shown 
that a farm could not get along without them, and 
yet their rights are seldom recognized. One of the 
most amusing things is their effort to acquire per- 
sonal property. The boy has the care of the calves ; 
they always need feeding, or shutting up, or letting 
out; when the boy wants to play, there are those calves 
to be looked after, — until he gets to hate the name 
of calf. But in consideration of his faithfulness, two 
of them are given to him. There is no doubt that 
they are his: he has the entire charge of them. When 
they get to be steers, he spends all his holidays in 
breaking them in to a yoke. He gets them so broken 


in that they will run like a pair of deer all over the 


farm, turning the yoke, and kicking their heels, while 
he follows in full chase, shouting the ox language 


56 - BEING A BOY 


till he is red in the face. When the steers grow up 
to be cattle, a drover one day comes along and takes 
them away, and the boy is told that he can have 
another pair of calves; and so, with undiminished» 
faith, he goes back and begins over again to make his 
fortune. He owns lambs and young colts in the 
same way, and makes just as much out of them. 

There are ways in which the farmer-boy can earn 
money, as by gathering the early chestnuts and taking 
them to the corner store, or by finding turkeys’ eggs 
and selling them to his mother; and another way is 
to go without butter at the table— but the money~” 
thus made is for the heathen. John read in Dr. 
Livingstone that some of the tribes in Central Africa 
(which is represented by a blank spot in the atlas) 
use the butter to grease their hair, putting on pounds 
of it ata time ; and he said he had rather eat his but- 
ter than have it put to that use, especially as it melted 
away so fast in that hot climate. 

Of course it was explained to John that the mis- . 
sionaries do not actually carry butter to Africa, and 
that they must usually go without it themselves there, 
it being almost impossible to make it good from the 
milk in the cocoanuts. And it was further explained ~ 
to him that even if the heathen never received his 
butter or the money for it, it was an excellent thing 
for a boy to cultivate the habit of self-denial and of 
benevolence, and if the heathen never heard of him, 
he would be blessed for his generosity. This was all 
true. 

But John said that he was tired of supporting the 
heathen out of his butter, and he wished the rest of 


THE SEASON OF PUMPKIN-PIE 57 


the family would also stop eating butter and save the 
money for missions; and he wanted to know where 
the other members of the family got their money to 
send to the heathen; and his mother said that he 
was about half right, and that self-denial was just as 
good for grown people as it was for little boys and 
girls. 

The boy is not always slow to take what he con- 
siders his rights. Speaking of those thin pumpkin-pies 
kept in the cellar cupboard. I used to know a boy, 
who afterwards grew to be a selectman, and brushed 
his hair straight up like General Jackson, and went 
to the legislature, where he always voted against every 
measure that was proposed, in the most honest man- 
ner, and got the reputation of being the “ watch-dog 
of the treasury.” Rats in the cellar were nothing to 
be compared to this boy for destructiveness in pies. 
He used to go down whenever he could make an 
excuse, to get apples for the family, or draw a mug 
of cider for his dear old grandfather (who was a 
famous story-teller about the Revolutionary War, 
and would no doubt have been wounded in battle if 
he had not been as prudent as he was patriotic), and 
come upstairs with a tallow candle in one hand and 
the apples or cider in the other, looking as innocent 
and as unconscious as if he had never done anything 
in his life except deny himself butter for the sake of 
the heathen. And yet this boy would have buttoned 
under his jacket an entire round pumpkin-pie. And 
the pie was so well made and so dry that it was not 
injured in the least, and it never hurt the boy’s clothes 
a bit more than if it had been inside of him instead 


58 BEING A BOY 


of outside; and this boy would retire to a secluded 
place and eat it with another boy, being never sus- 
pected because he was not in the cellar long enough 
to eat a pie, and he never appeared to have one about 
him. But he did something worse than this. When 
his mother saw that pie after pie departed, she told 
the family that she suspected the hired man ; and the 
boy never said a word, which was the meanest kind 
of lying. That hired man was probably regarded 
with suspicion by the family to the end of his days, 
and if he had been accused of robbing, they would 
have believed him guilty. 

I should n’t wonder if that selectman occasionally 
has remorse now about that pie; dreams, perhaps, 
that it is buttoned up under his jacket and sticking 
to him like a breastplate ; that it lies upon his stomach 
like a round and red-hot nightmare, eating into his 
vitals. Perhaps not. It 1s difficult to say exactly what 
was the sin of stealing that kind of pie, especially if 
the one who stole it ate it. It could have been used 
for the game of pitching quoits, and a pair of them 
would have made very fair wheels for the dog-cart. 
And yet it is probably as wrong to steal a thin pie 


as a thick one; and it made no difference because it °' 


was easy to steal this sort. Easy stealing is no better 
than easy lying, where detection of the lie is difficult. 
The boy who steals his mother’s pies has no right 
to be surprised when some other boy steals his water- 
melons. Stealing is like charity in one respect, — it 
| 1s apt to begin at home. 


Xx 


FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE WORLD 


country, —the best kind of boy to be in the 
summer, —I would be about ten years of age. 
As soon as I got any older, I would quit it. The 
trouble with a boy is, that just as he begins to enjoy 
himself he is too old, and has to be set to doing some- 
thing else. If a country boy were wise, he would stay 
at just that age when he could enjoy himself most, 
and have the least expected of him in the way of 
work. 
Of course the perfectly good boy will always pre- 
fer to work and to do “chores” for his father and 
errands for his mother and sisters, rather than enjoy 


|: I were forced to be a boy, and a boy in the 


himself in his own way. I never saw but one such ™ 


boy. He lived in the town of Goshen, — not the 
place where the butter is made, but a much better 
Goshen than that. And I never saw im, but I heard 
of him; and being about the same age, as I sup- 
posed, I was taken once from Zoah, where I lived, 
to Goshen to see him. But he was dead. He had 
been dead almost a year, so that it was impossible 
to see him. He died of the most singular disease : 
it was from of eating green apples in the season of 
them. This boy, whose name was Solomon, before 


he died, would rather split up kindling-wood for 


60 BEING A BOY 


his mother than go a-fishing, — the consequence was, 
that he was kept at splitting kindling-wood and such 
work most of the time, and grew a better and more 
useful boy day by day. Solomon would not disobey 
his parents and eat green apples, — not even when 
they were ripe enough to knock off with a stick, — 
but he had such a longing for them, that he pined, 
and passed away. If he had eaten the green apples, 
he would have died of them, probably; so that his 
example is a difficult one to follow. In fact, a boy 
is a hard subject to get a moral from. All his little 
playmates who ate green apples came to Solomon’s 
funeral, and were very sorry for what they had done. 

John was a.very different boy from Solomon, not 
“half so good, nor half so dead. He was a farmer’s 
boy, as Solomon was, but he did not take so much 
interest in the farm. If John could have had his way, 
he would have discovered a cave full of diamonds, 
and lots of nail-kegs full of gold-pieces and Spanish 
dollars, with a pretty little girl living in the cave, 
and two beautifully caparisoned horses, upon which, 
taking the jewels and money, they would have ridden 
off together, he did not know where. John had got 


thus far in his studies, which were apparently arith- » 


metic and geography, but were in reality the Arabian 
Nights, and other books of high and mighty adven- 
ture. He was a simple country-boy, and did not 
_ know-much about the world as it is, but he had one 
of his own imagination, in which he lived a good deal. 
I daresay he found out soon enough what the world 
is, and he had a lesson or two when he was quite 
young, in two incidents, which I may as well relate. 


FIRST EXPERIENCE 61 


If you had seen John at this time, you might have 
thought he was only a shabbily dressed country lad, 
and you never would have guessed what beautiful 
thoughts he sometimes had as he went stubbing his 
toes along the dusty road, nor what a chivalrous little 
fellow he was. You would have seen a short boy, 
barefooted, with trousers at once too big and too 
short, held up perhaps by one suspender only, a 
checked cotton shirt, and a hat of braided palmleaf, 
frayed at the edges and bulged up in the crown. It 
is impossible to keep a hat neat if you use it to catch 
bumble-bees and whisk ’em ; to bail the water from 
a leaky boat; to catch minnows in; to put over 
honey-bees’ nests, and to transport pebbles, straw- 
berries, and hens’ eggs. John usually carried a sling 
in his hand, or a bow, or a limber stick, sharp at one 
end, from which he could sling apples a great dis- 
tance. If he walked in the road, he walked in the 
middle of it, shuffling up the dust; or if he went 
elsewhere, he was likely to be running on the top 
of the fence or the stone wall, and chasing chip- 
munks. 

John knew the best place to dig sweet-flag in all 
the farm; it was in a meadow by the river, where the 
bobolinks sang so gayly. He never liked to hear the 
bobolink sing, however, for he said italways reminded 
him of the whetting of a scythe, and ¢hat reminded 
him of spreading hay; and if there was anything 
he hated, it was spreading hay after the mowers. “ I 
guess you would n’t like it yourself,” said John, “with 
the stubbs getting into your feet, and the hot sun, 
and the men getting ahead of you, all you could do.” 


*” 
62 BEING A BOY 


Towards evening, once, John was coming along 
the road home with some stalks of the sweet-flag in 
his hand; there is a succulent pith in the end of the 
stalk which is very good to eat, —tender, and not so 
strong as the root; and John liked to pull it, and 
carry home what he did not eat on the way. As he 
was walking along he met a carriage, which stopped 
opposite to him; he also stopped and bowed, as 
country boys used to bow in John’s day. A lady 
leaned from the carriage, and said: 

“< What have you got, little boy?” 

She seemed to be the most beautiful woman John 
had ever seen; with light hair, dark, tender eyes, 
and the sweetest smile. There was that in her gra- 
cious mien and in her dress which reminded John 
of the beautiful castle ladies, with whom he was well 
acquainted in books. He felt that he knew her at 
once, and he also seemed to be a sort of young prince 
himself. I fancy he did n’t look much like one. But 
of his own appearance he thought not at all, as 
he replied to the lady’s question, without the least 
embarrassment : 

“ It’s sweet-flag stalk ; would you like some?” 


‘Indeed, I should like to taste it,”’ said the lady, ., 


with a most winning smile. “I used to be very fond 
of it when I was a little girl.” 

John was delighted that the lady should like sweet- 
flag, and that she was pleased to accept it from him. 
He thought himself that it was about the best thing 
to eat he knew. He handed upa large bunch of it. 
The \ady took two or three stalks, and was about 
to return the rest, when John said: 


FIRST EXPERIENCE 63 


“‘ Please keep it all, ma’am. I can get lots more. 
I know where it’s ever so thick.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” said the lady ; and as 
the carriage started, she reached out her hand to 
John. He did not understand the motion, until he 
saw a cent drop in the road at his feet. Instantly 
all his illusion and his pleasure vanished. Something 
like tears were in his eyes as he shouted : 

“T don’t want your cent. I don’t sell flag!” 

John was intensely mortified. “I suppose,” he 
said, “ she thought I was a sort of beggar-boy. To 
think of selling flag!” 

At any rate, he walked away and left the cent in 
the road, a humiliated boy. The next day he told 
Jim Gates about it. Jim said he was green not to 
take the money; he’d go and look for it now, if he 
would tell him about where it dropped. And Jim 
did spend an hour poking about in the dirt, but he 
did not find the cent. Jim, however, had an idea ; he 
said he was going to dig sweet-flag, and see if another 
carriage would n’t come along. 

John’s next rebuff and knowledge of the world 
was of another sort. He was again walking the road 
at twilight, when he was overtaken by a wagon with 
one seat, upon which were two pretty girls, and a 
young gentleman sat between them, driving. It was 
a merry party, and John could hear them laughing 
and singing as they approached him. The wagon 
stopped when it overtook him, and one of the sweet- 
faced girls leaned from the seat and said, quite seri- 
ously and pleasantly : 

* Little boy, how’s your mar?” 


64 BEING # or 


John was surprised and puzzled for a moment. 
He had never seen the young lady, but he thought 
that she perhaps knew his mother; at any rate, his 
instinct of politeness made him say : 

“She ’s pretty well, I thank you.” 

*“ Does she know you are out?” 

And thereupon all three in the wagon burst into 
a roar of laughter, and dashed on. 

It flashed upon John in a moment that he had 
been imposed on, and it hurt him dreadfully. His 
self-respect was injured somehow, and he felt as if his 
lovely, gentle mother had been insulted. He would 
like to have thrown a stone at the wagon, and in a 
rage he cried: 

“You ‘re a nice’ — but he could n’t think of any 
hard, bitter words quick enough. 

Probably the young lady, who might have been 
almost any young lady, never knew what a cruel thing 


she had done. 


XI 


HOME INVENTIONS 


4b winter season is not all sliding down- 
hill for the farmer-boy, by any means; yet 
he contrives to get as much fun out of it as 
from any part of the year. There is a difference in 
boys: some are always jolly, and some go scowling 
always through life as if they had a stone-bruise on 
each heel. I likea jolly boy. 

I used to know one who came round every morn- 
ing to sell molasses candy, offering two sticks for a 
cent apiece; it was worth fifty cents a day to see his 
cheery face. That boy rose in the world. Heis now 
the owner of a large town at the West. To be sure, 
there are no houses in it except his own; but there 
is a map of it, and roads and streets are laid out on 
it, with dwellings and churches and academies and a 
college and an opera-house, and you could scarcely 
tell it from Springfield or Hartford,— on paper. He 
and all his family have the fever and ague, and shake 
worse than the people at Lebanon ; but they do not 
mind it; it makes them lively, in fact. Ed May is 
just as jolly as he used to be. He calls his town 
Mayopolis, and expects to be mayor of it; his wife, 
however, calls the town Maybe. 

The farmer-boy likes to have winter come for 


__ one thing, because it freezes up the ground so that 


5 


66 BEING A BOY 


he can’t dig in it; and it is covered with snow so 
that there is no picking up stones, nor driving the 
cows to pasture. He would have a very easy time 
if it were not for the getting up before daylight to 
build the fires and do the “ chores.”” Nature intended 
the long winter nights for the farmer-boy to sleep ; 
but in my day he was expected to open his sleepy 
eyes when the cock crew, get out of the warm bed 
and light a candle, struggle into his cold pantaloons, 
and pull on boots in which the thermometer would 
have gone down to zero, rake open the coals on the 
hearth and start the morning fire, and then go to 
the barn to “fodder.” The frost was thick on the 
kitchen windows, the snow was drifted against the 
door, and the journey to the barn, in the pale light 
of dawn, over the creaking snow, was like an exile’s 
trip to Siberia. The boy was not half awake when 
he stumbled into the cold barn, and was greeted by 
the lowing and bleating and neighing of cattle wait- 
ing for their breakfast. How their breath steamed 
up from the mangers, and hung in frosty spears from 
their noses. Through the great lofts above the hay, 
where the swallows nested, the winter wind whistled, 


and the snow sifted. "Those old barns were well °: 


ventilated. . 

I used to spend much valuable time in planning a 
barn that should be tight and warm, with a fire in it, 
if necessary, in order to keep the temperature some- 
where near the freezing-point. I could n’t see how 
the cattle could live in a place where a lively boy, 
full of young blood, would freeze to death in a short 


time if he did not swing his arms and slap his hands, — 


‘4, 
HOME INVENTIONS 67 


and jump about like a goat. I thought I would 
have a sort of perpetual manger that should shake 
down the hay when it was wanted, and a self-acting 
machine that should cut up the turnips and pass 
them into the mangers, and water always flowing for 
the cattle and horses to drink. With these simple 
arrangements I could lie in bed, and know that the 
“chores” were doing themselves. It would also be 
necessary, in order that I should not be disturbed, 
that the crow should be taken out of the roosters, but 
I could think of no process to do it. It seems to me 


that the hen-breeders, if they know as much as they _ 


say they do, might raise a breed of crowless roosters, © 
for the benefit of boys, quiet neighborhoods, and 
sleepy families. 

There was another notion that I had about kin- 
dling the kitchen fire, that I never carried out. It 
was to have aspring at the head of my bed, connect- 
ing with a wire, which should run to a torpedo 
which I would plant over night in the ashes of the 
_ fireplace. By touching the spring I could explode 
the torpedo, which would scatter the ashes and cover 
the live coals, and at the same time shake down the 
sticks of wood which were standing by the side of 
the ashes in the chimney, and the fire would kindle 
itself. This ingenious plan was frowned on by the 
whole family, who said they did not want to be 
waked up every morning by an explosion. And yet 
they expected me to wake up without an explosion! 
A boy’s plans for making life agreeable are hardly 
ever heeded. } 

I never knew a boy farmer who was not eager to 


68 BEING A BOY 


go to the district school in the winter. There is such 
a chance for learning, that he must bea dull boy who 
does not come out in the spring a fair skater, an 
accurate snowballer, and an accomplished slider- 
down-hill, with or without a board, on his seat, on 
his stomach, or on his feet. Take a moderate hill, 
with a foot-slide down it worn to icy smoothness, 
and a “go-round” of boys on it, and there is nothing 
like it for whittling away boot-leather. The boy is 
the shoemaker’s friend. An active lad can wear 
down a pair of cowhide soles in a week so that the 
ice will scrape his toes. Sledding or coasting is also 
slow fun compared to the “‘ bareback” sliding down a 
steep hill over a hard, glistening crust. It is not 
only dangerous, but it is destructive to jacket and 
pantaloons to a degree to make a tailor laugh. If any 
other animal wore out his skin as fast as a school- 
boy wears out his clothes in winter, it would need a 
new one oncea month. In a country district-school 
patches were not by any means a sign of poverty, 
but of the boy’s courage and adventurous disposi- 
tion. Our elders used to threaten to dress us in 
leather and put sheet-iron seats in our trousers. The 


Yj 


boy said that he wore out his trousers on the hard ° 


seats in the schoolhouse ciphering hard sums. For 
that extraordinary statement he received two castiga- 
tions, — one at home, that was mild, and one from 
the schoolmaster, who was careful to lay the rod 
upon the boy’s sliding-place, punishing him, as he 
jocosely called it, on a sliding scale, according to the 
thinness of his pantaloons. 

What I liked best at school, however, was the 


HOME INVENTIONS 69 


study of history, —early history, —the Indian wars. |!‘ 


We studied it mostly at noontime, and we had it 
illustrated as the children nowadays have “ object- 
lessons,”— though our object was not so much to 
have lessons as it was to revive real history. 

Back of the schoolhouse rose a round hill, upon 
which, tradition said, had stood in colonial times a 
block-house, built by the settlers for defense against 
the Indians. For the Indians had the idea that the 
whites were not settled enough, and used to come 
nights to settle them with a tomahawk. It was called 
Fort Hill. It was very steep on each side, and the 
river ran close by. It was a charming place in sum- 
mer, where one could find laurel, and checkerber- 
ries, and sassafras roots, and sit in the cool breeze, 
looking at the mountains across the river, and listen- 
ing to the murmur of the Deerfield. The Metho- 
dists built a meeting-house there afterwards, but the 
hill was so slippery in winter that the aged could not 
climb it, and the wind raged so fiercely that it blew 
nearly all the young Methodists away (many of 
whom were afterwards heard of in the West), and 
finally the meeting-house itself came down into the 
valley, and grew a steeple, and enjoyed itself ever 
afterwards. It used to be a notion in New England 
that a meeting-house ought to stand as near heaven 
as possible. 

The boys at our school divided themselves into 


two parties: one was the Early Settlers and the other 


the Pequots, the latter the most numerous. The 
Early Settlers built a snow fort on the hill, and a 
strong fortress it was, constructed of snowballs, rolled 


70 BEING A BOY 


up to a vast size (larger than the cyclopean blocks 
of stone which form the ancient Etruscan walls in 
Italy), piled one upon another, and the whole ce- 
mented by pouring on water which froze and made 
the walls solid. Tuhe Pequots helped the whites build 


it. It had a covered way under the snow, through 


which only could it be entered, and it had bastions 
and towers and openings to fire from, and a great 
many other things for which there are no names in 


military books. And it had a glacis and a ditch out- 


side. 

When it was completed, the Early Settlers, leav- 
ing the women in the schoolhouse, a prey to the 
Indians, used to retire into it, and await the attack 
of the Pequots. There was only a handful of the 
garrison, while the Indians were many, and also bar- 
barous. It was agreed that they should be barbarous. 
. And it was in this light that the great question was 
settled whether a boy might snowball with balls that 
he had soaked over night in water and let freeze. 
They were as hard as cobble-stones, and if a boy 
should be hit in the head by one of them, he could 
not tell whether he was a Pequot or an Early Settler. 
It was considered as unfair to use these ice-balls 
in open fight, as it is to use poisoned ammunition 
in real war. But as the whites were protected by the 
fort, and the Indians were treacherous by nature, it 
was decided that the latter might use the hard mis- 
siles. 


The Pequots used to come swarming up the hill, 


with hideous war-whoops, attacking the fort on all 
sides with great noise and a shower of balls. The 


A yee 
ee a - , af 


HOME INVENTIONS 71 


garrison replied with yells of defiance and well- 
directed shots, hurling back the invaders when they 
attempted to scale the walls. The Settlers had the 
advantage of position, but they were sometimes over- 
powered by numbers, and would often have had to 
surrender but for the ringing of the school-bell. 
The Pequots were in great fear of the school-bell. 

I do not remember that the whites ever hauled 
down their flag and surrendered voluntarily ; but 
once or twice the fort was carried by storm and the 
garrison were massacred to a boy, and thrown out 
of the fortress, having been first scalped. To takea 
boy’s cap was to scalp him, and after that he was 
dead, if he played fair. There were a great many 
hard hits given and taken, but always cheerfully, for 
it was in the cause of our early history. The history 
of Greece and Rome was stuff compared to this. 
And we had many boys in our school who could 
imitate the Indian war-whoop enough better than 
they could scan arma, virumque cano. 


XII 


THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 


P | “AHE winter evenings of the farmer-boy in. 
New England used not to be so gay as to 
tire him of the pleasures of life before he 

became of age. A remote farmhouse, standing a 
little off the road, banked up with sawdust and earth 
to keep the frost out of the cellar, blockaded with 
snow, and flying a blue flag of smoke from its chim- 
ney, looks like a besieged fort. On cold and stormy 
winter nights, to the traveler wearily dragging along 
in his creaking sleigh, the light from its windows 
suggests a house of refuge and the cheer of a blazing 
fire. But it is no less a fort, into which the family 
retire when the New England winter on the hills 
really sets in. 

The boy is an important part of the garrison. He 
is not only one of the best means of communicating 
with the outer world, but he furnishes half the enter- + 
tainment and takes two thirds of the scolding of the 
family circle. A farm would come to grief without a 
boy on it, but it is impossible to think of a farm- 
house without a boy in it. 3 

“That boy” brings life into the house ; his tracks 
are to be seen everywhere; he leaves all the doors 
open; he has n’t half filled the wood-box; he makes 
noise enough to wake the dead; or he is in a brown- 


THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 73 


study by the fire and cannot be stirred, or he has 
fastened a grip into some Crusoe book which cannot 
easily be shaken off. I suppose that the farmer- 
boy’s evenings are not now what they used to be; 
that he has more books, and less to do, and is not 
half so good a boy as formerly, when he used to 
think the almanac was pretty lively reading, and the 
comic almanac, if he could get hold of that, was a 
supreme delight. 

Of course he had the evenings to himself, after he 
had done the “ chores” at the barn, brought in the 
wood and piled it high in the box, ready to be heaped 
upon the great open fire. It was nearly dark when 
he came from school (with its continuation of snow- 
balling and sliding), and he always had an agreeable 
time stumbling and fumbling around in barn and 
wood-house, in the waning light. 

John used to say that he supposed nobody would 
do his “ chores” if he did not get home till mid- 
night; and he was never contradicted. Whatever 
happened to him, and whatever length of days or 
sort of weather was produced by the almanac, the 
cardinal rule was that he should be at home before 
dark. 

John used to imagine what people did in the dark 
ages, and wonder sometimes whether he was n’t stil] 
in them. 

Of course, John had nothing to do all the evening, 
after his “‘ chores,’ — except little things. While he 
drew his chair up to the table in order to get the 
full radiance of the tallow candle on his slate or his 
book, the women of the house also sat by the table 


74 BEING A BOY 


knitting and sewing. The head of the house sat in 
his chair, tipped back against the chimney ; the hired — 
man was in danger of burning his boots in the fire. 
John might be deep in the excitement of a bearstory, 
or be hard at writing a “‘ composition ” on his greasy 
slate; but whatever he was doing, he was the only 
one who could always be interrupted. It was he who 
must snuff the candles, and put on a stick of wood, 
and toast the cheese, and turn the apples, and crack 
the nuts. He knew where the fox-and-geese board 
was, and he could find the twelve-men-Morris. Con- 
sidering that he was expected to go to bed at eight 
o’clock, one would say that the opportunity for study 
was not great, and that his reading was rather inter- 
rupted. There seemed to be always something for 
him to do, even when all the rest of the family came 
as near being idle as is ever possible in a New Eng- 
land household. 

No wonder that John was not sleepy at eight 
o’clock ; he had been flying about while the others 
had been yawning before the fire. He would like to 
sit up just to see how much more solemn and stupid 
it would become as the night went on; he wanted to 
tinker his skates, to mend his sled, to finish that 
chapter. Why should he go away from that bright 
blaze, and the company that sat in its radiance, to the 
cold and solitude of his chamber? Why did n’t the 
people who were sleepy go to bed? 

How lonesome the old house was; how cold it 
was, away from that great central firein the heart of 
it; how its timbers creaked as if in the contracting 
pinch of the frost; what a rattling there was of win- 


THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 75 


dows, what a concerted attack upon the clapboards ; 
how the floors squeaked, and what gusts from round 
corners came to snatch the feeble flame of the candle 
from the boy’s hand. How he shivered, as he paused 
at the staircase window to look out upon the great 
fields of snow, upon the stripped forest, through 
which he could hear the wind raving in a kind of fury, 
and up at the black flying clouds, amid which the 
young moon was dashing and driven on like a frail 
shallop at sea. And his teeth chattered more than 
ever when he got into the icy sheets, and drew him- 
self up into a ball in his flannel nightgown, like a fox 
in his hole. 

For a little time he could hear the noises down- 
stairs, and an occasional laugh; he could guess that 
now they were having cider, and now apples were 
going round ; and he could feel the wind tugging at 
the house, even sometimes shaking the bed. But 
this did not last long. He soon went away into a 
country he always delighted to be in: a calm place 
where the wind never blew, and no one dictated the 
time of going to bed toany oneelse. I like to think 
of him sleeping there, in such rude surroundings, 
ingenious, innocent, mischievous, with no thought 
of the buffeting he is to get from a world that has a 
good many worse places for a boy than the hearth of 
an old farmhouse, and the sweet, though undemon- 
strative, affection of its family life. 

But there were other evenings in the boy’s life, 
that were different from these at home, and one of 
them he will never forget. It opened a new world 
to John, and set him into a great flutter. It produced 


76 BEING A BOY 


a revolution in his mind in regard to neckties; it 
made him wonder if greased boots were quite the 
thing compared with blacked boots ; and he wished 
he had a long looking-glass, so that he could see, as 
he walked away from it, what was the effect of round 
patches on the portion of his trousers he could not 
see, except in a mirror; and if patches were quite 
stylish, even on everyday trousers. And he began to 
be very much troubled about the parting of his hair, 
and how to find out on which side was the natural 
part. 

The evening to which I refer was that of John’s 
first party. He knew the girls at school, and he was 
interested in some of them with a different interest 
from that he took in the boys. He never wanted to 
“take it out”? with one of them, for an insult, in a 
stand-up fight, and he instinctively softened a boy’s 
natural rudeness when he was with them. He would 
help a timid little girl to stand erect and slide; he 
would draw her on his sled, till his hands were stiff 
with cold, without a murmur; he would generously 
give her red apples into which he longed to set his 
own sharp teeth; and he would cut in two his lead- 
pencil for a girl, when he would not for a boy. Had 
he not some of the beautiful auburn tresses of 
Cynthia Rudd in his skate, spruce-gum, and winter- 
green box at home? And yet the grand sentiment 
of life was little awakened in John. He liked best 
to be with boys, and their rough play suited him 
better than the amusements of the shrinking, flutter- 
ing, timid, and sensitive little girls. John had not 
learned then that a spider-web is stronger than a 


THE LONELY FARMHOUSE 77 


cable; or that a pretty little girl could turn him 
round her finger a great deal easier than a big bully 
of a boy could make him cry “ enough.” 

John had indeed been at spelling-schools, and had 
accomplished the feat of “going home with a girl” 
afterwards ; and he had been growing into the habit 
of looking around in meeting on Sunday, and no- 
ticing how Cynthia was dressed, and not enjoying the 
service quite as much if Cynthia was absent as when 
she was present. But there was very little sentiment 
in all this, and nothing whatever to make John blush 
at hearing her name. 

But now John was invited toa regular party. There 
was the invitation, in a three-cornered billet, sealed 
with a transparent wafer: ‘“‘ Miss C. Rudd requests 
the pleasure of the company of,” etc., all in blue ink, 
and the finest kind of pin-scratching writing. What 
a precious document it was to John! It even exhaled 
a faint sort of perfume, whether of lavender or cara- 
way-seed he could not tell. He read it over a hun- 
dred times, and showed it confidentially to his favorite 
cousin, who had beaux of her own and had even “ sat 
up” with them in the parlor. And from this sympa- 
thetic cousin John got advice as to what he should 
wear and how he should conduct himself at the party. 


XIII 


JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 


Cynthia Rudd’s party, having broken through 

the ice on the river when he was skating that 
day, and, as the boy who pulled him out said, “come 
within an inch of his life.” But he took care not to 
tumble into anything that should keep him from the 
next party, which was given with due formality by 
Melinda Mayhew. 

John had been many a time to the house of Deacon 
Mayhew, and never with any hesitation, even if he 
knew that both the deacon’s daughters — Melinda 
and Sophronia—were at home. The only fear he 
had felt was of the deacon’s big dog, who always 
surlily watched him as he came up the tan-bark walk, 
and made a rush at him if he showed the least sign of 
wavering. But upon the night of the party his courage 
vanished, and he thought he would rather face all 
the dogs in town than knock at the front door. 

The parlor was lighted up, and as John stood on 
the broad flagging before the front door, by the lilac- 
bush, he could hear the sound of voices— girls’ 
voices — which set his heart in a flutter. He could 
face the whole district school of girls without flinch- 
ing, — he did n’t mind ’em in the meeting-house in 
their Sunday best ; but he began to be conscious that 


[< turned out that John did not go after all to 


ein 


- "gs 
yy” Fo 
A SE f 


JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 79 


now he was passing to a new sphere, where the girls 
are supreme and superior, and he began to feel for 
the first time that he was an awkward boy. The girl 
takes to society as naturally as a duckling does to the 
placid pond, but with a semblance of shy timidity ; 
the boy plunges in with a great splash, and hides his 
shy awkwardness in noise and commotion. 

When John entered, the company had nearly all 
come. He knew them every one, and yet there was 
something about them strange and unfamiliar. They 
were all a little afraid of each other, as people are apt 
to be when they are well dressed and met together 
for social purposes in the country. To be at a real 
party was a novel thing for most of them, and puta 
constraint upon them which they could not at once 
overcome. Perhaps it was because they were in the 
awful parlor, — that carpeted room of haircloth furni- 
ture, which was so seldom opened. Upon the wall 
hung two certificates framed in black,— one certi- 
fying that, by the payment of fifty dollars, Deacon 
Mayhew was a life member of the American Tract 
Society, and the other that, by a like outlay of bread 
cast upon the waters, his wife was a life member of 
the A. B. C. F. M., a portion of the alphabet which 
has an awful significance to all New England child- 
hood. These certificates are a sort of receipt in full 
for charity, and are a constant and consoling reminder 
to the farmer that he has discharged his religious ° 
duties. 

There was a fire on the broad hearth, and that, 
with the tallow candles on the mantelpiece, made 
quite an illumination in the room, and enabled the 


80 BEING A BOY 


boys, who were mostly on one side of the room, to 
see the girls, who were on the other, quite plainly. 
How sweet and demure the girls looked, to be sure! 
Every boy was thinking if his hair was slick, and feel- 
ing the full embarrassment of his entrance into fash- 
ionable life. It was queer that these children, who 
were so free everywhere else, should be so constrained 
now, and not know what to do with themselves. The 
shooting of a spark out upon the carpet was a great 
relief, and was accompanied by a deal of scrambling 
to throw it back into the fire, and caused much gig- 
gling. It was only gradually that the formality was 
at all broken, and the young people got together 
and found their tongues. 

John at length found himself with Cynthia Rudd, 
to his great delight and considerable embarrassment, 
for Cynthia, who was older than John, never looked 
so pretty. To his surprise he had nothing to say to 
her. They had always found plenty to talk about 
before, but now nothing that he could think of seemed 
worth saying at a party. 

‘It is a pleasant evening,”’ said John. 

“It is quite so,” replied Cynthia. 


“Did you come in a cutter?” asked John anx- » 


iously. 

““No; I walked on the crust, and it was perfectly 
lovely walking,” said Cynthia, in a burst of confi- 
dence. 

“‘ Was it slippery?” continued John. 

Note errs 

John hoped it would be slippery — very — when 
he walked home with Cynthia, as he determined to 


JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 81 


do, but he did not dare to say so, and the conversa- 
tion ran aground again. John thought about his dog 
and his sled and his yoke of steers, but he didn’t 
see any way to bring them into conversation. Had 
she read the “Swiss Family Robinson”? Only a 
little ways. John said it was splendid, and he would 


lend it to her, for which she thanked him, and said, \ 


with such a sweet expression, she should be so glad 
to have it from him. That was encouraging. 

And then John asked Cynthia if she had seen Sally 
Hawkes since the husking at their house, when Sally 
found so many red ears; and didn’t she think she 
was a real pretty girl. 

“ Yes, she was right pretty ;”’ and Cynthia guessed 
that Sally knew it pretty well. But did John like the 
color of her eyes? 

No; John did n’t like the color of her eyes exactly. 

“‘ Her mouth would be well enough if she did n’t 
laugh so much and show her teeth.” 

John said her mouth was her worst feature. 

“Oh, no,” said Cynthia warmly; “her mouth is 
better than her nose.” 

John did n’t know but it was better than her nose, 
and he should like her looks better if her hair was n’t 
so dreadful black. 

But Cynthia, who could afford to be generous 
now, said she liked black hair, and she wished hers 
was dark. Whereupon John protested that he liked 
light hair — auburn hair — of all things. 

And Cynthia said that Sally was a dear, good girl,. 
and she did n’t believe one word of the story that she 
only really found one red ear at the husking that 

6 


’ 


82 BEING A BOY 
night, and hid that and kept pulling it out as if it 


were a new one. 

And so the conversation, once started, went on 
as briskly as possible about the paring-bee, and the 
spelling-school, and the new singing-master who was 
coming, and how Jack Thompson had gone to North- 
ampton to be a clerk in a store, and how Elvira Red- 
dington, in the geography class at school, was asked 
what was the capital of Massachusetts, and had an- 
swered “ Northampton,” and all the school laughed. 
John enjoyed the conversation amazingly, and he 
half wished that he and Cynthia were the whole of 
the party. 

But the party had meantime got into operation, 
and the formality was broken up when the boys and 
girls had ventured out of the parlor into the more 
comfortable living-room, with its easy-chairs and 
everyday things, and even gone so far as to pene- 
trate the kitchen in their frolic. As soon as they 
forgot they were a party, they began to enjoy them- 
selves. 

But the real pleasure only began with the games. 
The party was nothing without the games, and, in- 
deed, it was made for the games. Very likely it was ” 
one of the timid girls who proposed to play some- 
thing, and when the ice was once broken, the whole 
company went into the business enthusiastically. 
There was no dancing. We should hope not. Not 
in the deacon’s house; not with the deacon’s daugh-* 
ters, nor anywhere in this good Puritanic society.‘+ 
Dancing was a sin in itself, and no one could tell 
what it would lead to. But there was no reason 


JOHN’S FIRST PARTY $3 


why the boys and girls shouldn’t come together 
and kiss each other during a whole evening occa-~ 
sionally. Kissing was a sign of peace, and was not 
at all like taking hold of hands and skipping about 
to the scraping of a wicked fiddle. 

In the games there was a great deal of clasping 
hands, of going round in a circle, of passing under 
each other’s elevated arms, of singing about my true 
love, and the end was kisses distributed with more 
or less partiality, according to the rules of the play ; 
but, thank Heaven, there was no fiddler. John 
liked it all, and was quite brave about paying all the 
forfeits imposed on him, even to the kissing all the 
girls in the room; but he thought he could have 
amended that by kissing a few of them a good many 
times instead of kissing them all once. 

But John was destined to have a damper put 
upon his enjoyment. They were playing a most 
fascinating game, in which they all stand in a circle 
and sing a philandering song, except one who is in 
the center of the ring, and holds a cushion. Ata 
certain word in the song, the one in the center 
throws the cushion at the feet of some one in the 
ring, indicating thereby the choice of a mate, and 
then the two sweetly kneel upon the cushion, like two 
meek angels, and — and so forth. Then the chosen 
one takes the cushion and the delightful play goes 
on. It is very easy, as it will be seen, to learn how 
to play it. Cynthia was holding the cushion, and at 
the fatal word she threw it down, not before John, 
but in front of Ephraim Leggett. And they two 
kneeled, and so forth. John was astounded. He 


84 BEING A BOY 


had never conceived of such perfidy in the female 
heart. He felt like wiping Ephraim off the face of 
the earth, only Ephraim was older and bigger than 
he. When it came his turn at length, —thanks to 
a plain little girl for whose admiration he didn’t 
care a straw, — he threw the cushion down before Me- 
linda Mayhew with all the devotion he could muster, 
and a dagger look at Cynthia. And Cynthia’s per- 
fidious smile only enraged him the more. John felt 
wronged, and worked himself up to pass a wretched 
evening. 

When supper came, he never went near Cynthia, 
and busied himself in carrying different kinds of 
pie and cake, and red apples and cider, to the girls 
he liked the least. He shunned Cynthia, and when 
he was accidentally near her, and she asked him 
if he would get her a glass of cider, he rudely told 
her — like a goose as he was—that she had better 
ask Ephraim. That seemed to him very smart; but 
he got more and more miserable, and began to feel 
that he was making himself ridiculous. 

Girls have a great deal more good sense in such 
matters than boys. Cynthia went to John, at length, 
and asked him simply what the matter was. John © 
blushed, and said that nothing was the matter. Cyn- 
thia said that it would n’t do for two people always 
to be together at a party; and so they made up, and 
John obtained permission to “see’’ Cynthia home. 

It was after half-past nine when the great festiv- 
ities at the Deacon’s broke up, and John walked 
home with Cynthia over the shining crust and under 
the stars. It was mostly a silent walk, for this was 


JOHN’S FIRST PARTY 85 


also an occasion when it is difficult to find anything 
fit to say. And John was thinking all the way how 
he should bid Cynthia good-night; whether it would 
do and whether it wouldn’t do, this not being a 
game, and no forfeits attaching to it. When they 
reached the gate, there was an awkward little pause. 
John said the stars were uncommonly bright. Cyn- 
thia did not deny it, but waited a minute and then 
turned abruptly away, with “ Good-night, John!” 

“ Good-night, Cynthia!” 

And the party was over, and Cynthia was gone, 
and John went home in a kind of dissatisfaction 
with himself. 

It was long before he could go to sleep for think- 
ing of the new world opened to him, and imagining 
how he would act under a hundred different circum- 
stances, and what he would say, and what Cynthia 
would say; but a dream at length came, and led 
him away to a great city and a brilliant house; and 
while he was there, he heard a loud rapping on the 
under floor, and saw that it was daylight. 


XIV 


THE SUGAR CAMP 


enjoys more than the making of maple sugar ; 

it is better than “ blackberrying,” and nearly as 
good as fishing. And one reason he likes this work 
is, that somebody else does the most of it. It is 
a sort of work in which he can appear to be vefy 
active, and yet not do much. 

And it exactly suits the temperament of a real boy 
to be very busy about nothing. If the power, for 
instance, that 1s expended in play by a boy between 
the ages of eight and fourteen could be applied to 
some industry, we should see wonderful results. But 
a boy is like a galvanic battery that is not in connec- 
tion with anything; he generates electricity and plays 
it off into the air with the most reckless prodigality. 
And I, for one, would n’t have it otherwise. It is as 


| THINK there is no part of farming the boy 


SS 


much a boy’s business to play off his energies into + 


space as it is for a flower to blow, or a catbird to sing 
snatches of the tunes of all the other birds. 

In my day maple-sugar-making used to be some- 
thing between picnicking and being shipwrecked on 
a fertile island, where one should save from the wreck 
tubs and augers, and great kettles and pork, and 
hen’s eggs and rye-and-indian bread, and begin at 
once to lead the sweetest life in the world. I am 


THE SUGAR CAMP 87 


told that it is something different nowadays, and that 
there is more desire to save the sap, and make good, 
pure sugar, and sell it for a large price, than there 
used to be, and that the old fun and picturesqueness 
of the business are pretty much gone. I am told 
that it is the custom to carefully collect the sap and 
bring it to the house, where there are built brick 
arches, over which it is evaporated in shallow pans, 
and that pains is taken to keep the leaves, sticks, 
and ashes and coals out of it, and that the sugar is 
clarified ; and that, in short, it 1s a money-making 
business, in which there is very little fun, and that 
the boy is not allowed to dip his paddle into the 


kettle of boiling sugar and lick off the delicious . 


sirup. The prohibition may improve the sugar, but 
it is cruel to the boy. 


As I remember the New England boy (and Iam ,. 


very intimate with one), he used to be on the gui 
vive in the spring for the sap to begin running. I 
think he discovered it as soon as anybody. Perhaps he 
knew it by a feeling of something starting in his own 
veins, —a sort of spring stir in his legs and arms, 
which tempted him to stand on his head, or throw 
a handspring, if he could find a spot of grousd 
from which the snow had melted. The sap stirs early 


in the legs of a country-boy, and shows itself in 


uneasiness in the toes, which get tired of boots, and 
want to come out and touch the soil just as soon as 
the sun has warmed ita little. The country-boy goes 
barefoot just as naturally as the trees burst their 


buds, which were packed and varnished over in the , 


fall to keep the water and the frost out. Perhaps 


“en sh 
mae SG. 


aes * tel 


ae 


B3 ay BEING A BOY 


the boy has been out digging into the maple-trees 
with his jack-knife ; at any rate, he is pretty sure to 
announce the discovery as he comes running into 
the house in a great state of excitement — as if he 
had heard a hen cackle in the barn — with “Sap’s 
runnin’ !” 

And then, indeed, the stir and excitement begin. 
The sap-buckets, which have been stored in the 
garret over the wood-house, and which the boy has. 
occasionally climbed up to look at with another boy, 
for they are full of sweet suggestions of the annual 
spring frolic, —the sap-buckets are brought down 
and set out on the south side of the house and 
scalded. The snow is still a foot or two deep in the 
woods, and the ox-sled is got out to make a road to 
the sugar camp, and the campaign begins. The boy 
is everywhere present, superintending everything, 
asking questions, and filled with a desire to help the 
excitement. 

It is a great he when the cart is loaded with the 
buckets and the procession starts into the woods. 
The sun shines almost unobstructedly into the forest, 
for there are only naked branches to bar it; the snow 


is soft and beginning to sink down, leaving the young 


bushes spindling up everywhere; the snowbirds are 
twittering about, and the noise of shouting and of 
the blows of the axe echoes far and wide. This is 
spring, and the boy can scarcely contain his delight 
that his out-door life is about to begin again. 

In the first place, the men go about and tap the 
trees, drive in the spouts, and hang the buckets 
under. The boy watches all these operations with 


THE SUGAR CAMP 89 


the greatest interest. He wishes that some time, when 
a hole is bored in a tree, the sap would spout out 
in a stream as it does when a cider-barrel is tapped ; 
but it never does, it only drops, sometimes almost 
in a stream, but on the whole slowly, and the boy 
learns that the sweet things of the world have to be 
patiently waited for, and do not usually come other- 
wise than drop by drop. 

Then the camp is to be cleared of snow. The 
shanty is re-covered with boughs. In front of it two 
enormous logs are rolled nearly together, and a fire 
is built between them. Forked sticks are set at each 
end, and a long pole is laid on them, and on this are 
hung the great caldron kettles. The huge hogsheads 
are turned right side up, and cleaned out to receive 
the sap that is gathered. And now, if there is a good 
“sap run,” the establishment is under full headway. 

The great fire that is kindled up is never let out, 
night or day, as long as the season lasts. Somebody 
is always cutting wood to feed it ; somebody is busy 
most of the time gathering in the sap; somebody is 
required to watch the kettles that they do not boil 
over, and to fill them. It is not the boy, however; 
he is too busy with things in general to be of any 
use in details. He has his own little sap-yoke and 
small pails, with which he gathers the sweet liquid. 
He has a little boiling-place of his own, with small » 
logs and a tiny kettle. In the great kettles the boil- 
ing goes on slowly, and the liquid, as it thickens, is 
dipped from one to another, until in the end kettle 
it is reduced to sirup, and is taken out to cool 
and settle, until enough is made to “ sugar off.” To 


90 BEING A BOY 


“sugar off” is to boil the sirup until it is thick 
enough to crystallize into sugar. This is the grand 
event, and is done only once in two or three days. 

But the boy’s desire is to “sugar off’’ perpetu- 
ally. He boils his kettle down as rapidly as possible ; 
he is not particular about chips, scum, or ashes ; he is 
apt to burn his sugar; but if he can get enough to 
make a little wax on the snow, or to scrape from the 
bottom of the kettle with his wooden paddle, he is 
happy. A good deal is wasted on his hands, and the 
outside of his face, and on his clothes, but he does ~~ 
not care; he is not stingy. 

To watch the operations of the big fire gives him 
constant pleasure. Sometimes he is left to watch the 
boiling kettles, with a piece of pork tied on the end 
of a stick, which he dips into the boiling mass when 
it threatens to go over. He is constantly tasting of 
it, however, to see if it is not almost sirup. He has 
a long round stick, whittled smooth at one end, 
which he uses for this purpose, at the constant risk 
of burning his tongue. The smoke blows in his face ; 
he is grimy with ashes; he is altogether such a mass 
of dirt, stickiness, and sweetness, that his own mother 
would n’t know him. “t 

He likes to boil eggs in the hot sap with the hired 
man; he likes to roast potatoes in the ashes, and 
he would live in the camp day and night if he were v 
permitted. Some of the hired men sleep in the bough 
shanty and keep the fire blazing all night. To sleep 
there with them, and awake in the night and hear the , 
wind in the trees, and see the sparks fly up to the sky, 
is a perfect realization of all the stories of adventures 


THE SUGAR CAMP gt 


he has ever read. He tells the other boys afterwards 
that he heard something in the night that sounded 
very much like a bear. The hired man says that he 
was very much scared by the hooting of an owl. 

The great occasions for the boy, though, are the 
times of “ sugaring-off.” Sometimes this used to be 
done in the evening, and it was made the excuse for 
a frolic in the camp. The neighbors were invited ; 
sometimes even the pretty girls from the village, who 
filled all the woods with their sweet voices and merry 
laughter and little affectations of fright. The white 
snow still lies on all the ground except the warm spot 
about the camp. The tree branches all show dis- 
tinctly in the light of the fire, which sends its ruddy 
glare far into the darkness, and lights up the bough 
shanty, the hogsheads, the buckets on the trees, and 
the group about the boiling kettles, until the scene 
is like something taken out of a fairy play. If Rem- 
brandt could have seen a sugar party in a New Eng- 
land wood, he would have made out of its strong 
contrasts of light and shade one of the finest pic- 
tures in the world. But Rembrandt was not born in 
Massachusetts ; people hardly ever do know where © 
to be born until it is too late. Being born in the right 
place is a thing that has been very much neglected. 

At these sugar parties every one was expected to 
eat as much sugar as possible; and those who are 
practiced in it can eat a great deal. It is a peculiarity 
about eating warm maple sugar, that though you may 
eat so much of it one day as to be sick and loathe the 
thought of it, you will want it the next day more than 
ever. At the “sugaring-off” they used to pour the 


OP way BEING A BOY 


hot sugar upon the snow, where it congealed, with- 
out crystallizing, into a sort of wax, which I do sup- 
pose is the most delicious substance that was ever 
invented. And it takes a great while to eat it. If one 
should close his teeth firmly on a ball of it, he would 
be unable to open his mouth until it dissolved. The 
sensation while it is melting is very pleasant, but one 
cannot converse. 

The boy used to make a big lump of it and give it 
to the dog, who seized it with great avidity, and closed 
his jaws on it, as dogs will on anything. It was funny 
the next moment to see the expression of perfect 
surprise on the dog’s face when he found that he 
could not open his jaws. He shook his head ; he sat 
down in despair; he ran round in a circle; he dashed 
into the woods and back again. He did everything 
except climb a tree, and howl. It would have been 
sucha relief to him if he could have howled. But that 
was the one thing he could not do. 


et a, 
ee ee 


XV 


THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 


not turn out a poet, or a missionary, or.a peddler. ~ 

Most of them used to. There is everything in 
the heart of the New England hills to feed the ima- 
gination of the boy, and excite his longing for strange 
countries. I scarcely know what the subtle influence 
is that forms him and attracts him in the most fas- 
cinating and aromatic of all lands, and yet urges 
him away from all the sweet delights of his home to 
become a roamer in literature and in the world, — 
a poet and a wanderer. There is something in the 
soil and the pure air, I suspect, that promises more 
romance than is forthcoming, that excites the imagi- 
nation without satisfying it, and begets the desire of 
adventure. And the prosaic life of the sweet home 
does not at all correspond to the boy’s dreams of the 
world. Inthe good old days, I am told, the boys on 
the coast ran away and became sailors; the country- 
boys waited till they grew big enough to be mission- 
aries, and then they sailed away, and met the coast 
boys in foreign ports. 

John used to spend hours in the top of a slender 
hickory-tree that a little detached itself from the forest 
which crowned the brow of the steep and lofty pasture 
behind his house. He was sent to make war on the 


|: is a wonder that every New England boy does | 


94 BEING A BOY 


bushes that constantly encroached upon the pasture- 
land; but John had no hostility to any growing 
thing, and a very little bushwhacking satisfied him. 
When he had grubbed up a few laurels and young 
tree-sprouts, he was wont to retire into his favor- 
ite post of observation and meditation. Perhaps 
he fancied that the wide-swaying stem to which he 
clung was the mast of a ship; that the tossing forest 
behind him was the heaving waves of the sea; and 
that the wind which moaned over the woods and 
murmured in the leaves, and now and then sent him 
a wide circuit in the air, as if he had been a blackbird 
on the tip-top of a spruce, was an ocean gale. What 
life, and action, and heroism there was to him in the 
multitudinous roar of the forest, and what an eternity 
of existence in the monologue of the river, which 
brawled far, far below him over its wide stony bed! 
How the river sparkled and danced and went on, 
now in a smooth amber current, now fretted by the 
pebbles, but always with that continuous busy song! 
John never knew that noise to cease, and he doubted 
not, if he stayed here a thousand years, that same loud 
murmur would fill the air. 

On it went, under the wide spans of the old — 
wooden, covered bridge, swirling around the great 
rocks on which the piers stood, spreading away be- 
low in shallows, and taking the shadows of a row of 
maples that lined the green shore. Save this roar, no 
sound reached him, except now and then the rumble 
of a wagon on the bridge, or the muffled far-off 
voices of some chance passers on the road. Seen 
from this high perch, the familiar village, sending its 


HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 95 


brown roofs and white spires up through the green 
foliage, had a strange aspect, and was like some town 
in a book, say a village nestled in the Swiss moun- 
tains, or something in Bohemia. And there, beyond 
the purple hills of Bozrah, and not so far as the stony 
pastures of Zoah, whither John had helped drive the 
colts and young stock in the spring, might be, per- 
haps, Jerusalem itself. John had himself once been 
to the land of Canaan with his grandfather, when he 
was a very small boy; and he had once seen an 
actual, no-mistake Jew, a mysterious person, with 
uncut beard and long hair, who sold scythe-snaths 
in that region, and about whom there was a rumor 
that he was once caught and shaved by the indignant 
farmers, who apprehended in his long locks a con- 
tempt of the Christian religion. Oh, the world had 
vast possibilities for John. Away to the south, up a 
vast basin of forest, there was a notch in the horizon 
and an opening in the line of woods, where the road 
ran. Through this opening John imagined an army 
might appear, perhaps British, perhaps Turks, and 
banners of red and of yellow advance, and a cannon 
wheel about and point its long nose, and open on 
the valley. He fancied the army, after this salute, 
winding down the mountain road, deploying in the 
meadows, and giving the valley to pillage and to 
flame. In which event his position would be an 
excellent one for observation and for safety. While 
he was in the height of this engagement, perhaps the 
horn would be blown from the back porch, remind- 
ing him that it was time to quit cutting brush andv 
go for the cows. As if there were no better use for 


96 BEING A BOY 


a warrior and a poet in New England than to send ~ 
him for the cows! 

John knew a boy —a bad enough boy I daresay 
— who afterwards became a general in the war, and 
went to Congress, and got to be a real governor, who 
also used to be sent to cut brush in the back pas- 
tures, and hated it in his very soul; and by his wrong 
conduct forecast what kind of a man he would be. 
This boy, as soon as he had cut about one brush, would 
seek for one of several holes in the ground (and he 
was familiar with several), in which lived a white-and- 
black animal that must always be nameless in a book, 
but an animal quite capable of the most pungent 
defense of himself. This young aspirant to Congress 
would cut a long stick, with a little crotch in the end 
of it, and run it into the hole; and when the crotch 
was punched into the fur and skin of the animal, he 
would twist the stick round till it got a good grip on 
the skin, and then he would pull the beast out; and 
when he got the white-and-black just out of the hole 
so that his dog could seize him, the boy would take 
to his heels, and leave the two to fight it out, content 
to scent the battle afar off. And this boy, who was 
in training for public life, would do this sort of thing » 
all the afternoon, and/when the sun told him that he 
had spent long enough time cutting brush, he would 
industriously go home as innocent as anybody. There 
are few such boys as this nowadays; and that is the 
reason why the New England pastures are so much 
overgrown with brush. 

John himself preferred to hunt the pugnacious 
woodchuck. He bore a special grudge against this 


HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 97 


clover-eater, beyond the usual hostility that boys feel 
for any wild animal. One day on his way to school 
a woodchuck crossed the road before him, and John 
gave chase. The woodchuck scrambled into an or- 
chard and climbed a small apple-tree. John thought 
this a most cowardly and unfair retreat, and stood 
under the tree and taunted the animal and stoned it. 
Thereupon the woodchuck dropped down on John 
and seized him by the leg of his trousers. John was 
both enraged and scared by this dastardly attack ; 
the teeth of the enemy went through the cloth and 
met; and there he hung. John then made a pivot 
of one leg and whirled himself around, swinging the 
woodchuck in the air, until he shook him off; but 
in his departure the woodchuck carried away a large 
piece of John’s summer trousers-leg. The boy never 
forgot it. And whenever he had a holiday, he used 
to expend an amount of labor and ingenuity in the 
pursuit of woodchucks that would have made his for- 
tune in any useful pursuit. There was a hill pasture, 
down on one side of which ran a small brook, and 
this pasture was full of woodchuck-holes. It required 
the assistance of several boys to capture a woodchuck. 
It was first necessary by patient watching to ascertain 
that the woodchuck was at home. When one was 
seen to enter his burrow, then all the entries to it 
except one — there are usually three — were plugged 
up with stones. A boy and a dog were then left to 
watch the open hole, while John and his comrades 
went to the brook and began to dig a canal, to turn 
the water into the residence of the woodchuck. This 
was often a difficult feat of engineering, and a long 
i, 


98 BEING A BOY 


job. Often it took more than half a day of hard 
labor with shovel and hoe to dig the canal. But when 
the canal was finished and the water began to pour 
into the hole, the excitement began. How long would 
it take to fill the hole and drown out the woodchuck ? 
Sometimes it seemed as if the hole was a bottomless 
pit. But sooner or later the water would rise in it, 
and then there was sure to be seen the nose of the 
woodchuck, keeping itself on a level with the rising 
flood. It was piteous to see the anxious look of the 
hunted, half-drowned creature as it came to the sur- 
face and caught sight of the dog. There the dog 
stood, at the mouth of the hole, quivering with 
excitement from his nose to the tip of his tail, and 
behind him were the cruel boys dancing with joy 
and setting the dog on. The poor creature would dis- 
appear in the water in terror; but he must breathe, 
and out would come his nose again, nearer the dog 
each time. At last the water ran out of the hole as 
well as in, and the soaked beast came with it, and made 
a desperate rush. But in a trice the dog had him, 
and the boys stood off in a circle, with stones in their 
hands, to see what they called “fair play.” They 
maintained perfect “neutrality ’’ so long as the dog 
was getting the best of the woodchuck; but if the 
latter was likely to escape, they “interfered” in the 
interest of peace and the “ balance of power,” and 
killed the woodchuck. This is a boy’s notion of jus- 
tice ; of course, he’d no business to be a woodchuck, 
—an “unspeakable woodchuck.” 

I used the word “aromatic” in relation to the 
New England soil. John knew very well all its sweet, 


HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 99 


aromatic, pungent, and medicinal products, and liked 
to search for the scented herbs and the wild fruits 
and exquisite flowers ; but he did not then know, and 
few do know, that there is no part of the globe where 
the subtle chemistry of the earth produces more that 
is agreeable to the senses than a New England hill- 
pasture and the green meadow at its foot. The poets 
have succeeded in turning our attention from it to 


the comparatively barren Orient as the land of sweet- * 


smelling spices and odorous gums. And it is indeed 
a constant surprise that this poor and stony soil elabo- 
rates and grows so many delicate and aromatic pro- 
ducts. 

John, it is true, did not care much for anything 
that did not appeal to his taste and smell and delight 
in brilliant color; and he trod down the exquisite 
ferns and the wonderful mosses without compunction. 
But he gathered from the crevices of the rocks the 
columbine and the eglantine and the blue harebell ; 
he picked the high-flavored alpine strawberry, the 
blueberry, the boxberry, wild currants and goose- 
berries, and fox-grapes; he brought home armfuls of 
the pink-and-white laurel and the wild honeysuckle ; 
he dug the roots of the fragrant sassafras and of the 
sweet-flag; he ate the tender leaves of the winter- 
green and its red berries ; he gathered the peppermint 
and the spearmint; he gnawed the twigs of the 
black birch; there was a stout fern which he called 
“ brake,” which he pulled up, and found that the soft 
end “tasted good;”” he dug the amber gum from the 
spruce-tree, and liked to smell, though he could not 
chew, the gum of the wild cherry ; it was his melan- 


100 BEING A BOY 


choly duty to bring home such medicinal herbs forthe 
garret as the gold-thread, the tansy, and the loath- 
some “‘ boneset;”’ and he laid in for the winter, like 
a squirrel, stores of beechnuts, hazel-nuts, hickory- 
nuts, chestnuts, and butternuts. But that which lives 
most vividly in his memory and most strongly draws 
him back to the New England hills is the aromatic 
sweet-fern; he likes to eat its spicy seeds, and to 
crush in his hands its fragrant leaves; their odor is 
the unique essence of New England. 


XVI 


JOHN’S REVIVAL 


P AHE New England country-boy of the last 
generation never heard of Christmas. There 
was no such day in his calendar. If John 

ever came across it in his reading, he attached no 

meaning to the word. 
If his curiosity had been aroused, and he had 

asked his elders about it, he might have got the dim 

impression that it was a kind of Popish holiday, the » 


celebration of which was about as wicked as “ card- 


playing,” or being a “ Democrat.” John knew a 
couple of desperately bad boys who were reported to 
play “seven-up” in a barn, on the haymow, and the 
enormity of this practice made him shudder. He 
had once seen a pack of greasy “playing-cards,” and ” 
it seemed to him to contain the quintessence of sin. 
If he had desired to defy all Divine law and outrage 
all human society, he felt that he could do it by 
shuffling them. And he was quite right. The two 
bad boys enjoyed in stealth their scandalous pastime, 
because they knew it was the most wicked thing they 
could do. If it had been as sinless as playing mar- 
bles, they would n’t have cared for it. John some- 
times drove past a brown, tumble-down farmhouse, 
whose shiftless inhabitants, it was said, were card- 
playing people ; and it isimpossible to describe how 


102 BEING A BOY 


wicked that house appeared to John. He almost yf 
expected to see its shingles stand on end. In the 
old New England one could not in any other way 

so express his contempt of all holy and orderly life 

as by playing cards for amusement. 

There was no element of Christmas in John’s life, 
any more than there was of Easter; and probably 
nobody about him could have explained Easter ; and 
he escaped all the demoralization attending Christmas 
gifts. Indeed, he never had any presents of any kind, 
either on his birthday or any other day. He expected 
nothing that he did not earn, or make in the way of 
“trade” with another boy. He was taught to work 
for what he received. He even earned, as I said, the 
extra holidays of the day after the Fourth and the 
day after Thanksgiving. Of the free grace and gifts 
of Christmas he had no conception. The single and 
melancholy association he had with it was the quak- 
ing hymn which his grandfather used to sing in a 
cracked and quavering voice: 


«« While shepherds watched their flocks by night, 
All seated on the ground.’’ 


The “ glory ” that “shone around ” at the end of it 
—the doleful voice always repeating, “and glory 
shone around ”— made John as miserable as “ Hark! 
from the tombs.” It was all one dreary expectation 
of something uncomfortable. It was, in short, “ reli- 
gion.” You’d got to have it some time; that John 
believed. But it lay in his unthinking mind to put 
off the “ Hark! from the tombs ” enjoyment as long. 
as possible. He experienced a kind of delightful 


JOHN’S REVIVAL 103 


wickedness in indulging his dislike of hymns and of 
Sunday. 

John was not a model boy, but I cannot exactly 
define in what his wickedness consisted. He had no 
inclination to steal, nor much to lie; and he despised 
“‘meanness’”’ and stinginess, and had a chivalrous 
feeling toward little girls. Probably it never occurred 
to him that there was any virtue in not stealing and 
lying, for honesty and veracity were in the atmosphere 
about him. He hated work, and he “got mad” 
easily ; but he did work, and he was always ashamed 
when he was over his fit of passion. In short, you 
could n’t find a much better wicked boy than John. 

When the “revival”’ came, therefore, one summer, _ 
John was ina quandary. Sunday meetingand Sunday- 
school he didn’t mind; they were a part of regular 
life, and only temporarily interrupted a boy’s plea- 
sures. But when there began to be evening meetings 
at the different houses, a new element came into 
affairs. There was a kind of solemnity over the 
community, and a seriousness in all faces. At first 
these twilight assemblies offered a little relief to the 
monotony of farm life; and John liked to meet the 
boys and girls, and to watch the older people coming 
in, dressed in their second best. I think John’s im- 
agination was worked upon by the sweet and mourn- 
ful hymns that were discordantly sung in the stiff 
old parlors. There was a suggestion of Sunday, and 
sanctity too, in the odor of caraway-seed that pervaded 
the room. The windows were wide open also, and 
the scent of June roses came in, with all the languish- 
ing sounds of a summer night. All the little boys 


104 BEING A BOY 


had a scared look, but the little girls were never so 
pretty and demure as in this their susceptible serious- 
ness. If John saw a boy who did not come to the 
evening meeting, but was wandering off with his sling 
down the meadow, looking for frogs, maybe, that boy 
seemed to him a monster of wickedness. 

After a time, as the meetings continued, John fell 
also under the general impression of fright and seri- 
ousness. All the talk was of “ getting religion,” and 
he heard over and over again that the probability 
was if he did not get it now, he never would. The 
chance did not come often, and if this offer was not 
improved, John would be given over to hardness of 
heart. His obstinacy would show that he was not 
one of the elect. John fancied that he could feel his 
heart hardening, and he began to look with a wistful 
anxiety into the faces of the Christians to see what 
were the visible signs of being one of the elect. 
John put on agood deal of a manner that he “ did n’t 
care,’ and he never admitted his disquiet by asking 
any questions or standing up in meeting to be prayed 
for. But he did care. He heard all the time that all 
he had to do was to repent and believe. But there 
was nothing that he doubted, and he was perfectly 
willing to repent if he could think of anything to 
repent of. 

It was essential, he learned, that he should have a 
“conviction of sin.”’ This he earnestly tried to have. 
Other people, no better than he, had it, and he won- 
dered why he could n’t haveit. Boys and girls whom 
he knew were “under conviction,” and John began 
to feel not only panicky, but lonesome. Cynthia 


JOHN’S REVIVAL 105 


Rudd had been anxious for days and days, and not 
able to sleep at night, but now she had given herself 
up and found peace. There was a kind of radiance 
in her face that struck John with awe, and he felt 
that now there was a great gulf between him and 
Cynthia. Everybody was going away from him, and 
his heart was getting harder than ever. He could n’t 
feel wicked, all he could do. And there was Ed 
Bates, his intimate friend, though older than he, a 
“whaling,” noisy kind of boy, who was under con- 
viction and sure he was going to be lost. How John 
envied him! And pretty soon Ed “experienced 
religion.” John anxiously watched the change in 
E.d’s face when he became one of the elect. Anda 
change there was. And John wondered about another 
thing. Ed Bates used to go trout-fishing, with a 
, tremendously long pole, in a meadow brook near 
the river; and when the trout didn’t bite right off, 
Ed would “get mad,” and as soon as one took hold 
he would give an awful jerk, sending the fish more 
than three hundred feet into the air and landing it in 
the bushes the other side of the meadow, crying out, 


‘Gut darn ye, Ill learn ye.””’ And John wondered ~ 


if Ed would take the little trout out any more gently 
now. 

John felt more and more lonesome as one after 
another of his playmates came out and made a pro- 
fession. Cynthia (she too was older than John) sat 
on Sunday in the singers’ seat; her voice, which was 
going to be a contralto, had a wonderful pathos in it 
for him, and he heard it with a heartache. ‘‘ There 
she is,” thought John, “singing away like an angel 


106 BEING A BOY 


in heaven, and I am left out.” During all his after 
life a contralto voice was to John one of his most 
bitter and heart-wringing pleasures. It suggested the 
immaculate scornful, the melancholy unattainable. 

If ever a boy honestly tried to work himself into 
a conviction of sin, John tried. And what made him 
miserable was, that he could n’t feel miserable when 
everybody else was miserable. He even began to 
pretend to be so. He put on a serious and anxious 
look like the others. He pretended he did n’t care 
for play; he refrained from chasing chipmunks and 
snaring suckers; the songs of birds and the bright 
vivacity of the summer-time that used to make him 
turn handsprings smote him as a discordant levity. 
He was not a hypocrite at all, and he was getting to 
be alarmed that he was not alarmed at himself. Every 
day and night he heard that the spirit of the Lord 
would probably soon quit striving with him, and 
leave him out. The phrase was that he would “grieve 
away the Holy Spirit.” John wondered if he was not 
doing it. He did everything to put himself in the 
way of conviction, was constant at the evening meet- 
ings, wore a grave face, refrained from play, and tried 
to feel anxious. At length he concluded that he must ° 
do something. 

One night as he walked home from a solemn meet- 
ing, at which several of his little playmates had ‘‘ come 
forward,” he felt that he could force the crisis. He ~ 
was alone on the sandy road; it was an enchanting 
summer night; the stars danced overhead, and by 
his side the broad and shallow river ran over its stony 
bed with a loud’but soothing murmur that filled all 


JOHN’S REVIVAL 107 


the air with entreaty. John did not then know that 
it sang, “ But I go on forever,” yet there was in it 
for him something of the solemn flow of the eternal 
world. When he came in sight of the house, he knelt 
down in the dust by a pile of rails and prayed. He 
prayed that he might feel bad, and be distressed about 
himself. As he prayed he heard distinctly, and yet 
not as a disturbance, the multitudinous croaking of 
the frogs by the meadow spring. It was not dis- 
cordant with his thoughts ; it had in it a melancholy 
pathos, as if it were a kind of call to the uncon- 
verted. What is there in this sound that suggests 
the tenderness of spring, the despair of a summer 
night, the desolateness of young love? Years after 
it happened to John to be at twilight at a railway 
station on the edge of the Ravenna marshes. A little 
way over the purple plain he saw the darkening towers 
and heard “the sweet bells of Imola.” The Holy 
Pontiff Pius IX. was born at Imola, and passed his 
boyhood in that serene and moist region. As the 
train waited, John heard from miles of marshes round 
about the evening song of millions of frogs, louder 
and more melancholy and entreating than the vesper 
call of the bells. And instantly his mind went back 
— for the association of sound is as subtle as that of . 
odor — to the prayer, years ago, by the roadside and 
the plaintive appeal of the unheeded frogs, and he 
wondered if the little Pope had not heard the like 
importunity, and perhaps, when he thought of him- 
self as a little Pope, associated his conversion with 
this plaintive sound. 

John prayed, but without feeling any worse, and 


108 BEING A BOY 


then went desperately into the house, and told the 
family that he was in an anxious state of mind. This~ 
was joyful news to the sweet and pious household, 
and the little boy was urged to feel that he was a 
sinner, to repent, and to become that night a Chris- 
~ tian; he was prayed over, and told to read the Bible, 
and put to bed with the injunction to repeat all the 
texts of Scripture and hymns he could think of. 
John did this, and said over and over the few texts 
he was master of, and tossed about in a real discon- 
tent now, for he had a dim notion that he was play- 
ing the hypocrite a little. But he was sincere enough 
in wanting to feel, as the other boys and girls felt, 
that he was a wicked sinner. He tried to think of 
his evil deeds; and one occurred to him; indeed, it 
often came to his mind. It was a lie; a deliberate, 
awful lie, that never injured anybody but himself. 
John knew he was not wicked enough to tell a lie to 
injure anybody else. | 

This was the lie. One afternoon at school, just 
before John’s class was to recite in geography, his 
pretty cousin, a young lady he held in great love and 
respect, came in to visit the school. John was a favor- 
ite with her, and she had come to hear him recite. — 
As it happened, John felt shaky in the geographical 
lesson of that day, and he feared to be humiliated in 
the presence of his cousin; he felt embarrassed to 
that degree that he could n’t have “ bounded ” Mas- 
sachusetts. So he stood up and raised his hand, and 
said to the schoolma’am, “‘ Please, ma’am, I’ve got ~“* 
the stomach-ache; may I go home?” And John’s 
character for truthfulness was so high (and even this 


JOHN’S REVIVAL 109 


was ever a reproach to him), that his word was 
instantly believed, and he was dismissed without 
any medical examination. For a moment John was 
delighted to get out of school so early; but soon his 
guilt took all the light out of the summer sky and 
the pleasantness out of nature. He had to walk 
slowly, without a single hop or jump, as became a 
diseased boy. The sight of a woodchuck at a distance 
from his well-known hole tempted John, but he 
restrained himself, lest somebody should see him, and 
know that chasing a woodchuck was inconsistent with - 
the stomach-ache. He was acting a miserable part, 
but it had to be gone through with. He went home 
and told his mother the reason he had left school, 
but he added that he felt “some” better now. The 
“some” didn’t save him. Genuine sympathy was 
lavished on him. He had to swallow a stiff dose of 
nasty ‘‘picra,’’— the horror of all childhood, and he 
was putin bed immediately. The world never looked 
so pleasant to John, but to bed he was forced to go. 
He was excused from all chores; he was not even to 4 
go after the cows. John said he thought he ought to 
go after the cows, — much as he hated the business 
usually, he would now willingly have wandered over 
the world after cows, —and for this heroic offer, in 
the condition he was, he got credit for a desire to do 
his duty ; and this unjust confidence in him added to 
his torture. And he had intended to set his hooks 
that night for eels. His cousin came home, and sat 
by his bedside and condoled with him; his school- 
ma’am had sent word how sorry she was for him, 
John was such a good boy. All this was dreadful. 


IIO BEING A BOY 


He groaned in agony. Besides, he was not to have 
any supper; it would be very dangerous to eat a 
morsel. The prospect was appalling. Never was 
there such a long twilight; never before did he hear 
so many sounds out-doors that he wanted to inves-- 
tigate. Being ill without any illness was a horrible 
condition. And he began to have.real stomach-ache 
now; and it ached because it was empty. John was 
hungry enough to have eaten the New England 
Primer. But by and by sleep came,.and John for- 
got his woes in dreaming that he knew where Mada- 
gascar was just as easy as anything. 

It was this lie that came back to John the night 
he was trying to be affected by the revival. And he 
was very much ashamed of it, and believed he would 
never tell another. But then he fell thinking whether, 
with the “ picra,” and the going to bed in the after- 
noon, and the loss of his supper, he had not been 
sufficiently paid for it. And inthis unhopeful frame __. 
of mind he dropped off in sleep. : 

And the truth must be told, that in the morning 
John was no nearer to realizing the terrors he desired 
to feel. But he was a conscientious boy, and would 
do nothing to interfere with the influences of the 
season. He not only put himself away from them 
all, but he refrained from doing almost everything 
that he wanted to do. There came at that time a 
newspaper, a secular newspaper, which had in it a 
long account of the Lang Island races, in which the _ 
famous horse “ Lexington” was a runner. John was — 
fond of horses, he knew about Lexington, and he 
had looked forward to the result of this race with 














JOHN’S REVIVAL. 11t 


keen interest. But to read the account of it how he 
felt might destroy his seriousness of mind, and — 
in all reverence and simplicity he felt it — be a means 
of “ grieving away the Holy Spirit.” He therefore 
hid away the paper in a table-drawer, intending to 
read it when the revival should be over. Weeks 
after, when he looked for the newspaper, it was not 
to be found, and John never knew what “ time” 
Lexington made nor anything about the race. This 
was to him a serious loss, but by no means so deep 
as another feeling that remained with him; for when 
his little world returned to its ordinary course, and 
Jong after, John had an uneasy apprehension of his 
own separateness from other people, in his insensi- 
bility to the revival. Perhaps the experience was a 
damage to him; and it is a pity that there was no 
one to explain that religion for a little fellow like him 
is not a “ scheme.” 


XVII 
WAR 


ar boy who is good for anything is a“ 


natural savage. The scientists who want to 

study the primitive man, and have so much 
difficulty in finding one anywhere in this sophisti- 
cated age, could n’t do better than to devote their./ 
attention to the common country-boy. He has the 
primal, vigorous instincts and impulses of the Afri- 
can savage, without any of the vices inherited from 
a civilization long ago decayed or developed in an 
unrestrained barbaric society. You want to catch 
your boy young, and study him before he has either 
virtues or vices, in order to understand the primitive 
man. | 

Every New England boy desires (or did desire a 

generation ago, before children were born sophisti- 
cated, with a large library, and with the word “ cul- 
ture”’ written on their brows) to live by hunting,~y 
fishing, and war. The military instinct, which is the 
special mark of barbarism, is strong in him. It arises 
not alone from his love of fighting, for the boy is” 
naturally as cowardly as the savage, but from his 
fondness for display, — the same that a corporal or 
a general feels in decking himself in tinsel and taw- 
dry colors and strutting about in view of the female 
sex. Half the pleasure in going out to murder 


WAR 113 


another man with a gun would be wanting if one did 
not wear feathers and gold-lace and stripes on his 
pantaloons. The law also takes this view of it, and 
will not permit men to shoot each other in plain 
clothes. And the world also makes some curious 
distinctions in the art of killing. To kill people with 
arrows is barbarous; to kill them with smooth-bores 
and flintlock muskets is semi-civilized ; to kill them 
with breech-loading rifles is civilized. That nation 
is the most civilized which has the appliances to kill “* 
the most of another nation in the shortest time. 
This is the result of six thousand years of constant 
civilization. By and by, when the nations cease to 
be boys, perhaps they will not want to kill each 
other at all. Some people think the world is very 
old; but here is an evidence that it is very young, 
and, in fact, has scarcely yet begun to be a world. 
When the volcanoes have done spouting, and the 
earthquakes are quaked out, and you can tell what 
land is going to be solid and keep its level twenty- 
four hours, and the swamps are filled up, and the 
deltas of the great rivers, like the Mississippi and 
the Nile, become ¢erra firma, and men stop killing 
their fellows in order to get their land and other 
property, then perhaps there will be a world that an 
angel would n’t weep over. Now one half the world 
are employed in getting ready to kill the other half, 
some of them by marching about in uniform, and 
\ the others by hard work to earn money to pay taxes 
to buy uniforms and guns. 
John was not naturally very cruel, and it was prob- 


ably the love of display quite as much as of fighting 
8 


114 BEING A BOY 


that led him into a military life ; for he, in common 
with all his comrades, had other traits of the savage. 
One of them was the same passion for ornament that 
induces the African to wear anklets and bracelets of 
hide and of metal, and to decorate himself with tufts 
of hair, and to tattoo his body. In John’s day there 
was a rage at school among the boys for wearing 
bracelets woven of the hair of the little girls. Some 
of them were wonderful specimens of braiding and 
twist. hese were not captured in war, but were sen- 
timental tokens of friendship given by the young 
maidens themselves. John’s own hair was kept so 
short (as became a warrior) that you couldn’t have 
made a bracelet out of it, or anything except a paint- 
brush; but the little girls were not under military 
law, and they willingly sacrificed their tresses to deco- 
rate the soldiers they esteemed. As the Indian is hon- 
ored in proportion to the scalps he can display, at 
John’s school the boy was held in highest respect who 
could show the most hair trophies on his wrist. John 
himself had a variety that would have pleased a Mo- 
hawk, fine and coarse and of all colors. There were 
the flaxen, the faded straw, the glossy black, the lus- 


trous brown, the dirty yellow, the undecided auburn, .. 


and the fiery red. Perhaps his pulse beat more 
quickly under the red hair of Cynthia Rudd than on 
account of all the other wristlets put together ; it was 
a sort of gold-tried-in-the-fire-color to John, and 
burned there with a steady flame. Now that Cynthia 
had become a Christian, this band of hair seemed a 
more sacred if less glowing possession (for all de- 
tached hair will fade in time), and if he had known 


“Ne 


ts 


WAR 115 


anything about saints, he would have imagined that 
it was a part of the aureole that always goes with a 
saint. But I am bound to say that while John had 
a tender feeling for this red string, his sentiment was 
not that of the man who becomes entangled in the 
meshes of a woman’s hair; and he valued rather the 
number than the quality of these elastic wristlets. 
John burned with as real a military ardor as ever 
inflamed the breast of any slaughterer of his fel- 
lows. He liked to read of war, of encounters with the 


Indians, of any kind of wholesale killing in glittering ~~ 


uniform, to the noise of the terribly exciting fife and 
drum, which maddened the combatants and drowned 
the cries of the wounded. In his future he saw him- 
self a soldier with plume and sword and snug-fitting, 
decorated clothes, — very different from his some- 
what roomy trousers and country-cut roundabout, 
made by Aunt Ellis, the village tailoress, who cut out 
clothes, not according to the shape of the boy, but 
to what he was expected to grow to, — going where 
glory awaited him. In his observation of pictures, it 
was the common soldier who was always falling and 
dying, while the officer stood unharmed in the storm 
of bullets and waved his sword in a heroic attitude. 
John determined to be an officer. 


It is needless to say that he wasanardent member | | 


of the military company of his village. He had risen 
from the grade of corporal to that of first lieutenant ; 
the captain was a boy whose father was captain of the 
grown militia company, and consequently had inher- 
ited military aptness and knowledge. The old cap- 
tain was a flaming son of Mars, whose nose militia 


ae BEING A BOY 


war, general training, and New England rum had 
painted with the color of glory and disaster. He was 
one of the gallant old soldiers of the peaceful days of 
our country, splendid in uniform, a martinet in drill, 
terrible in oaths, a glorious object when he marched 
at the head of his company of flintlock muskets, 
with the American banner full high advanced, and 
the clamorous drum defying the world. In this he 
fulfilled his duties of citizen, faithfully teaching his 


a\ 


uniformed companions how to march by the left leg, 
and to get reeling drunk by sundown; otherwise he — 


did n’t amount to much in the community; his house 
was unpainted, his fences were tumbled down, his 
farm was a waste, his wife wore an old gown to meet- 
ing, to which the captain never went; but he was a 
good trout-fisher, and there was no man in town who 
spent more time at the country store and made more 
shrewd observations upon the affairs of his neigh- 
bors. Although he had never been in an asylum any 
more than he had been in war, he was almost as per- 
fect a drunkard as he was soldier. He hated the 


British, whom he had never seen, as much as he 


loved rum, from which he was never separated. 


The company which his son commanded, wearing .. 


his father’s belt and sword, was about as effective as 
the old company, and more orderly. It contained 
from thirty to fifty boys, according to the pressure 
of “chores” at home, and it had its great days of 
parade and its autumn maneuvers, like the general 
training. It was an artillery company, which gave 
every boy a chance to wear a sword, and it possessed 
a small mounted cannon, which was dragged about 


WAR 117 


and limbered and unlimbered and fired, to the im- 
minent danger of everybody, especially of the com- 
‘pany. In point of marching, with all the legs going 
together, and twisting itself up and untwisting, 
breaking into single-file (for Indian fighting), and 
forming platoons, turning a sharp corner, and getting 
out of the way of a wagon, circling the town pump, 
frightening horses, stopping short in front of the 
tavern, with ranks dressed and eyes right and left, it 
was the equal of any military organization I ever saw. 
It could train better than the big company, and I 
think it did more good in keeping alive the spirit 
of patriotism and desire to fight. Its discipline was 
strict. If a boy left the ranks to jab a spectator, or 
make faces at a window, or “ go for”’ a striped snake, » 
he was “ hollered ” at no end. 

It was altogether a very serious business; there 
was no levity about the hot and hard marching, and 
as boys have no humor, nothing ludicrous occurred. ~ 
John was very proud of his office, and of his ability 
to keep the rear ranks closed up and ready to exe- 
cute any maneuver when the captain “ hollered,” 
which he did continually. He carried a real sword, 
which his grandfather had worn in many a militia 
campaign on the village green, the rust upon which 
John fancied was Indian blood; he had various red 
and yellow insignia of military rank sewed upon dif- 
ferent parts of his clothes, and though his cocked 


hat was of pasteboard, it was decorated with gilding 


and bright rosettes, and floated a red feather that 


made his heart beat with martial fury whenever he ~ 


looked at it. The effect of this uniform upon the 


118 BEING A BOY 


girls was not a matter of conjecture. I think they 
really cared nothing about it, but they pretended to 
think it fine, and they fed the poor boy’s vanity, — 
the weakness by which women govern the world. 
The exalted happiness of. John in this military 
service I daresay was never equaled in any subse- 
quent occupation. The display of the company in 
the village filled him with the loftiest heroism. There 
was nothing wanting but an enemy to fight, but this 
could only be had by half the company staining 


themselves with elderberry juice and going into the _ 
woods as Indians, to fight the artillery from behind 


trees with bows and arrows, or to ambush it and 
tomahawk the gunners. This, however, was made to 


seem very like real war. Traditions of Indian cruelty, . 


were still fresh in western Massachusetts. Behind 
John’s house in the orchard were some old slate 


tombstones, sunken and leaning, which recorded the 


names of Captain Moses Rice and Phineas Arms, 
who had been killed by Indians in the last century 
while at work in the meadow by the river, and who 
slept there in the hope of the glorious resurrection. 
Phineas Arms — martial name — was long since dust, 
and even the mortal part of the great Captain Moses 
Rice had been absorbed in the soil and passed per- 
haps with the sap up into the old but still blooming 
apple-trees. It was a quiet place where they lay, but 
they might have heard —if hear they could — the 
loud, continuous roar of the Deerfield, and the stir- 
ring of the long grass on that sunny slope. There was 
a tradition that years ago an Indian, probably the last 
of his race, had been seen moving along the crest of 


WAR 119g 


the mountain, and gazing down into the lovely valley 
which had been the favorite home of his tribe, upon 
the fields where he grew his corn, and the sparkling 
stream whence he drew his fish. John used to fancy 
at times, as he sat there, that he could see that red 
specter gliding among the trees on the hill; and if 


the tombstone suggested to him the trump of judg- ~ 


ment, he could not separate it from the war-whoop 
that had been the last sound in the ear of Phineas 
Arms. The Indian always preceded murder by the 
war-whoop ; and this was an advantage that the 
artillery had in the fight with the elderberry Indians. 
It was warned in time. If there was no war-whoop, 
the killing did n’t count; the artillery man got up 
and killed the Indian. The Indian usually had the 
worst of it; he not only got killed by the regulars, 
but he got whipped by the homeguard at night for 
‘staining himself and his clothes with the elderberry. 
But once a year the company had a superlative 
parade. This was when the military company from 
the north part of the town joined the villagers in a 
general muster. This was an infantry company, and 
not to be compared with that of the village in point 
of evolutions. There was a great and natural hatred 
between the north town boys and the center. I don’t 
know why, but no contiguous African tribes could 
be more hostile. It was all right for one of either» 
section:to “lick” the other if he could, or for half a 
\/\dozen to “lick” one of the enemy if they caught him 
alone. The notion of honor, as of mercy, comes into 
+-the boy only when he is pretty well grown; to some 
neither ever comes. And yet there was an artificial 


120 BEING A BOY 


military courtesy (something like that existing in 
the feudal age, no doubt) which put the meeting of 
these two rival and mutually detested companies ona 
high plane of behavior. It was beautiful to see the 
seriousness of this lofty and studied condescension 
on both sides. For the time everything was under 
martial law. The village company being the senior, 
Its captain commanded the united battalion in the 
march, and this put John temporarily into the posi- 
tion of captain, with the right to march at the head 
and “ holler;” a responsibility which realized all his 
hopes of glory. I suppose there has yet been dis- 
covered by man no gratification like that of march- 
ing at the head of a column in uniform on parade, 
— unless, perhaps, it is marching at their head when 
they are leaving a field of battle. John experienced 
all the thrill of this conspicuous authority, and I 
daresay that nothing in his later life has so exalted 
him in his own esteem; certainly nothing has since 
happened that was so important as the events of that 

parade day seemed. He satiated himself with all the 
delights of war. 


XVIII 


COUNTRY SCENES 


land country-boy becomes conscious that his trou- 

sers-legs are too short, and is anxious about 
the part of his hair and the fit of his woman-made 
roundabout. These harrowing thoughts come to 
him later than to the city lad. At least, a generation 
ago he served a long apprenticeship with nature only 
for a master, absolutely unconscious of the artificial- 
ities of life. 

But I do not think his early education was neg- 
lected. And yet it is easy to underestimate the influ- 
ences that, unconsciously to him, were expanding his 
mind and nursing in him heroic purposes. There 
was the lovely but narrow valley, with its rapid 
mountain stream; there were the great hills which 
he climbed, only to see other hills stretching away to 
a broken and tempting horizon ; there were the rocky 
pastures, and the wide sweeps of forest through 
which the winter tempests howled, upon which 
hung the haze of summer heat, over which the great 
shadows of summer clouds traveled; there were 
the clouds themselves, shouldering up above the 
peaks, hurrying across the narrow sky, — the clouds 
out of which the wind came, and the lightning and 
the sudden dashes of rain; and there were days 


| : is impossible to say at what age a New Eng- 


122 BEING A BOY 


when the sky was ineffably blue and distant, a fath- 
omless vault of heaven where the hen-hawk and 
the eagle poised on outstretched wings and watched 
for their prey. Can you say how these things fed 
the imagination of the boy, who had few books and 
no contact with the great world? Do you think — 
any city lad could have written “ Thanatopsis”’ at © 
eighteen ? 

If you had seen John, in his short and roomy 
trousers and ill-used straw hat, picking his bare-~ 
footed way over the rocks along the river-bank of a 
cool morning to see if an eel had “ got on,” you 
would not have fancied that he lived in an ideal 
world. Nor did he consciously. So faras he knew, 
he had no more sentiment than a jack-knife. Al- 
though he loved Cynthia Rudd devotedly, and 
blushed scarlet one day when his cousin found a 
lock of Cynthia’s flaming hair in the box where John 
kept his fishhooks, spruce gum, flag-root, tickets 
of standing at the head, gimlet, dz//ets-doux in blue 
ink, a vile liquid in a bottle, to make fish bite, and 
other precious possessions, yet Cynthia’s society had 
no attractions for him comparable to a day’s trout- 
fishing. She was, after all, only a single and a very 
undefined item in his general ideal world, and there 
was no harm in letting his imagination play about 
her illumined head. Since Cynthia had “got reli- 
gion” and John had got nothing, his love was tem- 
- pered with a little awe and a feeling of distance. He 
was not fickle, and yet I cannot say that he was not 
ready to construct a new romance, in which Cynthia 
should be eliminated. Nothing was easier, Perhaps 


COUNTRY SCENES 123 


it was a luxurious traveling carriage, drawn by two 
splendid horses in plated harness, driven along the 
sandy road. There were a gentleman and a young 
lad on the front seat, and on the back seat a hand- 
some pale lady with a little girl beside her. Behind, 
on the rack with the trunk, was a colored boy, an 
imp out of a story-book. John was told that the 
black boy was a slave, and that the carriage was from ““ 
Baltimore. Here was a chance foraromance. Slay- 
ery, beauty, wealth, haughtiness, especially on the 
part of the slender boy on the front seat, — here was 
an opening into a vast realm. The high-stepping 
horses and the shining harness were enough to excite 
John’s admiration, but these were nothing to the 
little girl. His eyes had never before fallen upon 
that kind of girl; he had hardly imagined that such 
a lovely creature could exist. Was it the soft and 
dainty toilet, was it the brown curls, or the large 
laughing eyes, or the delicate, finely cut features, or 
the charming little figure of this fairy-like person? 
Was this expression on her mobile face merely that 
of amusement at seeing a country-boy? Then John 
hated her. On the contrary, did she see in him what 
John felt himself to be? Then he would go the world 
over to serve her. In a moment he was self-con- 
scious. His trousers seemed to creep higher up his | 
legs, and he could feel his very ankles blush. He 
hoped that she had not seen the other side of him, 
for, in fact, the patches were not of the exact shade 
of the rest of the cloth. The vision flashed by him 
in a moment, but it left him with a resentful feeling. 
Perhaps that proud little girl would be sorry some 


124 BEING A BOY 


day, when he had become a general, or written a_. 
book, or kept a store, to see him go away and marry 
another. He almost made up his cruel mind on the 
instant that he would never marry her, however bad 
she might feel. And yet he could n’t get her out of 
his mind for days and days, and when her image was 
present, even Cynthia in the singers’ seat on Sunday 
looked a little cheap and common. Poor Cynthia! 
Long before John became a general or had his re- 
venge on the Baltimore girl, she married a farmer 
and was the mother of children, red-headed; and 
when John saw her years after, she looked tired and 


discouraged, as one who has carried into womanhood» ~ 


none of the romance of her youth. 

Fishing and dreaming, I think, were the best 
amusements John had. The middle pier of the long 
covered bridge over the river stood upon a great 
rock, and this rock (which was known as the swim- 
ming-rock, whence the boys on summer evenings 
dove into the deep pool by its side) was a favorite 
spot with John when he could get an hour or two 
from the everlasting “ chores.’’ Making his way out 
to it over the rocks at low water with his fish-pole, 
there he was content to sit and observe the world; 
and there he sawa great deal of life. He always 
expected to catch the legendary trout which weighed 
two pounds and was believed to inhabit that pool. 
He always did catch horned dace and shiners, which 
he despised, and sometimes he snared a monstrous 
sucker a foot and a half long. But in the summer 
the sucker isa flabby fish, and John was not thanked 
for bringing him home. He liked, however, to lie 


COUNTRY SCENES 126 


with his face close to the water and watch the long 
fishes panting in the clear depths, and occasionally 
he would drop a pebble near one to see how grace- 
fully he would scud away with one wave of the tail 
into deeper water. Nothing fears the little brown 
boy. The yellow-bird slants his wings, almost 
touches the deep water before him, and then escapes 
away under the bridge to the east with a glint of 
sunshine on his back; the fish-hawk comes down 
with a swoop, dips one wing, and, his prey having 
darted under a stone, is away again over the still 
hill, high soaring on even-poised pinions, keeping 
an eye perhaps upon the great eagle which is sweep- 
ing the sky in widening circles. 

But there is other life. A wagon rumbles over 
the bridge, and the farmer and his wife, jogging 
along, do not know that they have startled a lazy 
boy into a momentary fancy that a thunder-shower 
is coming up. John can see as he lies there on a 


still summer day, with the fishes and the birds for + 


company, the road that comes down the left bank of 
the river, —a hot, sandy, well-traveled road, hidden 
from view here and there by trees and bushes. The 
chief point of interest, however, is an enormous syca- 
more-tree by the roadside and in front of John’s 
house. The house is more than a century old, and 
its timbers were hewed and squared by Captain 
Moses Rice (who lies in his grave on the hillside 
above it), in the presence of the Red Man who 
killed him with arrow and tomahawk some time 
after his house was set in order. The gigantic tree, 
struck with a sort of leprosy, like all its species, 


126 BEING A BOY 


appears much older, and of course has its tradition. 
They say that it grew from a green stake which the 
first land-surveyor planted there for one of his 
points of sight. John was reminded of it years after 
when he sat under the shade of the decrepit lime- 
tree in Freiburg and was told that it was originally 
a twig which the breathless and bloody messenger 
carried in his hand when he dropped exhausted in 
the square with the word “ Victory!” on his lips, 
announcing thus the result of the glorious battle of 
Morat, where the Swiss in 1476 defeated Charles 
the Bold. Under the broad but scanty shade of the 
great button-ball tree (as it was called) stood an old 
watering-trough, with its half-decayed penstock and 
well-worn spout pouring forever cold, sparkling 
water into the overflowing trough. It is fed bya 
spring near by, and the water 1s sweeter and colder 
than any in the known world, unless it be the well 
Zem-zem, as generations of people and horses which 
have drunk of it would testify, if they could come 
back. And if they could file along this road again, 
what a procession there would be riding down the 
valley !—antiquated vehicles, rusty wagons adorned 
with the invariable buffalo-robe even in the hottest” 
days, lean and long-favored horses, frisky colts, 
drawing, generation after generation, the sober and 
pious saints, that passed this way to meeting and to 
mill. 

What a refreshment is that water-spout! All day 
long there are pilgrims to it, and John likes no- “~ 
thing better than to watch them. Here comes a 
gray horse drawing a buggy with two men, — cattle- 


COUNTRY SCENES 127 


buyers, probably. Out jumps a man, down goes the 
check-rein. What a good draught the nag takes! 
Here comes a long-stepping trotter in a sulky ; man 
in a brown linen coat and wide-awake hat, — disso- 
lute, horsey-looking man. They turn up, of course. 
Ah, there is an establishment he knows well : a sorrel 
horse and an old chaise. The sorrel horse scents the 
water afar off, and begins to turn up long before he 


reaches the trough, thrusting out his nose in antici-.~ 


pation of the cool sensation. No check to let down; 
he plunges his nose in nearly to his eyes in his haste 
to get at it. Two maiden ladies — unmistakably 
such, though they appear neither “anxious nor aim- 
less” — within the scoop-top smile benevolently on 
the sorrel back. It is the deacon’s horse, a meeting- 
going nag, with a sedate, leisurely jog as he goes; 
and these are two of the “salt of the earth,” — the 
brevet rank of the women who stand and wait, — 
going down to the village store to dicker. There 
come two men ina hurry, horse driven up smartly 
and pulled up short; but as it 1s rising ground, and 
the horse does not easily reach the water with the 
wagon pulling back, the nervous man in the buggy 
hitches forward on his seat, as if that would carry 
the wagon a little ahead! Next, lumber-wagon with 
load of boards; horse wants to turn up, and driver 
switches him and cries “ G’lang,” and the horse re- 
luctantly goes by, turning his head wistfully towards 
the flowing spout. Ah, here comes an equipage 
strange to these parts, and John stands up to look ; 
an elegant carriage and two horses; trunks strapped 
on behind; gentleman and boy on front seat and 


128 BEING A BOY 


two ladies on back seat,— city people. The gentle- 
man descends, unchecks the horses, wipes his brow, 
takes a drink at the spout and looks around, evi- — 
dently remarking upon the lovely view, as he swings 
his handkerchief in an explanatory manner. Judi- 
cious travelers. John would like to know who they 
are. Perhaps they are from Boston, whence come 
all the wonderfully painted peddlers’ wagons drawn 
by six stalwart horses, which the driver, using no 
rein, controls with his long whip and cheery voice. 
If so, great is the condescension of Boston; and 
John follows them with an undefined longing as they 
drive away toward the mountains of Zoar. Here is 
a footman, dusty and tired, who comes with lagging 
steps. He stops, removes his hat, as he should to 
such a tree, puts his mouth to the spout, and takes 
along pull at the lively water. And then he goes 
on, perhaps to Zoar, perhaps to a worse place. 

So they come and go all the summer afternoon ; 
but the great event of the day is the passing down 
the valley of the majestic stage-coach, — the vast yel- 
low-bodied, rattling vehicle. John can hear a mile 
off the shaking of chains, traces, and whiffletrees,_, 
and the creaking of its leathern braces, as the great 
bulk swings along piled high with trunks. It repre- 
sents to John, somehow, authority, government, the 
right of way; the driver is an autocrat, — everybody” 
must make way for the stage-coach. It almost satis- 
fies the imagination, this royal vehicle; one can go 
in it to the confines of the world,—to Boston and © 
to Albany. 

There were other influences that I daresay con- 


COUNTRY SCENES 129 


tributed to the boy’s education. I think his imagi- 
nation was stimulated by a band of gypsies who used 
to come every summer and pitch a tent on a little 
roadside patch of green turf by the river-bank, not “ 
far from his house. It was shaded by elms and 
butternut-trees, and a long spit of sand and pebbles 
ran out from it into the brawling stream. Probably 
they were not a very good kind of gypsy, although 
the story was that the men drank and beat the 
women. John didn’t know much about drinking ; 
his experience of it was confined to sweet cider; yet 
he had already set himself up as a reformer, and ‘” 
joined the Cold Water Band. The object of this 
Band was to walk in a procession under a banner 
that declared, 
<< So here we pledge perpetual hate 
To all that can intoxicate; ”’ 

and wear a badge with this legend, and above it the 
device of a well-curb with a long sweep. It kept 
John and all the little boys and girls from being 
drunkards till they were ten or eleven years of age; ~ 
though perhaps a few of them died meantime from 
eating loaf-cake and pie and drinking ice-cold water 
at the celebrations of the Band. 

The gypsy camp had a strange fascination for 
John, mingled of curiosity and fear. Nothing more 
‘alien could come into the New England life than 
this tatterdemalion band. It was hardly credible that 
here were actually people who lived out-doors, who 
slept in their covered wagon or under their tent, and 
cooked in the open air; it was a visible romance 
transferred from foreign lands and the remote times 

9 


130 BEING A BOY 


of the story-books ; and John took these city thieves, 
who were on their annual foray into the country, 
trading and stealing horses and robbing hen-roosts 
and cornfields, for the mysterious race who for 
thousands of years have done these same things in 
all lands, by right of their pure blood and ancient 
lineage. John was afraid to approach the camp when 
any of the scowling and villainous men were lounging 
about, pipes in mouth; but he took more courage 
when only women and children were visible. The 
swarthy, black-haired women in dirty calico frocks 
were anything but attractive, but they spoke softly to 
the boy, and told his fortune, and wheedled him into 
bringing them any amount of cucumbers and green 
corn in the course of the season. In front of the tent 
were planted in the ground three poles that met 
together at the top, whence depended a kettle. This 
was the kitchen, and it was sufficient. The fuel for 
the fire was the driftwood of the stream. John noted 
that it did not require to be sawed into stove-lengths; 
and, in short, that the “chores”’ about this establish- 
ment were reduced to the minimum. And an older 
person than John might envy the free life of these 
wanderers, who paid neither rent nor taxes, and yet — 
enjoyed all the delights of nature. It seemed to the 
boy that affairs would go more smoothly in the 
world if everybody would live in this simple manner. 
Nor did he then know, or ever after find out, why it 
is that the world permits only wicked people to be 
Bohemians. 


XIX 


A CONTRAST TO THE NEW ENGLAND 
BOY 


NE evening at vespers in Genoa, attracted by 
() a burst of music from the swinging curtain 

of the doorway, I entered a little church 
much frequented by the common people. An unex- 
pected and exceedingly pretty sight rewarded me. 

It was All Souls’ Day. In Italy almost every day 
is set apart for some festival, or belongs to some 
saint or another, and I suppose that when leap year 
brings around the extra day, there is a saint ready 
to claim the 29th of February. Whatever the day 
was to the elders, the evening was devoted to the 
children. The first thing I noticed was, that the 
quaint old church was lighted up with innumerable 
wax tapers, —an uncommon sight, for the darkness 
of a Catholic church in the evening is usually re- 
lieved only by a candle here and there, and by a blaz- 
ing pyramid of them on the highaltar. The use of 
gas is held to bea vulgar thing all over Europe, 
and especially unfit for a church or an aristocratic 
palace. 

Then I saw that each taper belonged to a little 
boy or girl, and the groups of children were scat- 
tered all about the church. There was a group by 
every side altar and chapel, all the benches were 


130 BEING A BOY 


occupied by knots of them, and there were so many 
circles of them seated on the pavement that I could 
with difficulty make my way among them. There 
were hundreds of children in the church, all dressed 
in their holiday apparel, and all intent upon the illu- 
mination, which seemed to be a private affair to each 
one of them. | 

And not much effect had their tapers upon the 
darkness of the vast vaults above them. The tapers 
were little spiral coils of wax, which the children 
unrolled as fast as they burned, and when they were 
tired of holding them, they rested them on the 
ground and watched the burning. I stood some 
time by a group of a dozen seated in a corner of the 
church. They had massed all the tapers in the cen- 
ter and formed a ring about the spectacle, sitting 
with their legs straight out before them and their 
toes turned up. The light shone full in their happy 
faces, and made the group, enveloped otherwise in — 
darkness, like one of Correggio’s pictures of chil- 
dren or angels. Correggio was a famous Italian art- 
ist of the sixteenth century, who painted cherubs 
like children who were just going to heaven, and 
children like cherubs who had just come out of it. 
But then, he had the Italian children for models, 
and they get the knack of being lovely very young. 
An Italian child finds it as easy to be pretty as an 
American child to be good. 

One could not but be struck with the patience 
these little people exhibited in their occupation, 
and the enjoyment they got out of it. There was 
no noise; all conversed in subdued whispers and 


A CONTRAST 133 


behaved in the most gentle manner to each other, 
especially to the smallest, and there were many of 
them so small that they could only toddle about by 
the most judicious exercise of their equilibrium. I 
do not say this by way of reproof to any other kind 
of children. 

These little groups, as I have said, were scattered 
all about the church; and they made with their 
tapers little spots of light, which looked in the dis- 
tance very much like Correggio’s picture which is 
at Dresden, —the Holy Family at Night, and the 
light from the Divine Child blazing in the faces of 
all the attendants. Some of the children were infants 
in the nurses’ arms, but no one was too small to have 
a taper, and to run the risk of burning its fingers. 

There is nothing that a baby likes more than a 
lighted candle, and the church has understood this 
longing in human nature, and found means to 
gratify it by this festival of tapers. 

The groups do not all remain long in place, you 
may imagine; there isa good deal of shifting about, 
and I see little stragglers wandering over the church, 

“like fairies lighted by fireflies. Occasionally they 
form a little procession and march from one altar to 
another, their lights twinkling as they go. 

But all this time there is music pouring out of 
the organ-loft at the end of the church, and flood- 
ing all its spaces with its volume. In front of the 
organ is a choir of boys, led by a round-faced and 
jolly monk, who rolls about as he sings, and lets 
the deep bass noise rumble about a long time in his 
stomach before he pours it out of his mouth. I can 


134 BEING A BOY 


see the faces of all of them quite well, for each 
singer has a candle to light his music-book. 

And next to the monk stands the boy, —the 
handsomest boy in the whole world probably at this 
moment. I can see now his great, liquid, dark eyes, 
and his exquisite face, and the way he tossed back 
his long waving hair when he struck into his part. 
He resembled the portraits of Raphael, when that 
artist was a boy; only I think he looked better 
than Raphael, and without trying, for he seemed to 
be a spontaneous sort of boy. And how that boy 
did sing! He was the soprano of the choir, and he 
had a voice of heavenly sweetness. When he opened 
his mouth and tossed back his head, he filled the 
church with exquisite melody. 

He sang like a lark, or like an angel. As we never 
heard an angel sing, that comparison is not worth 
much, I have seen pictures of angels singing, — 
there is one by Jan and Hubert Van Eyck in the 
gallery at Berlin,—and they open their mouths 
like this boy, but I can’t say as much for their sing- 
ing. The lark, which you very likely never heard“ 
either, — for larks are as scarce in America as angels, 
—jis a bird that springs up from the meadow and 
begins to sing as he rises in a spiral flight, and the 
higher he mounts, the sweeter he sings, until you 
think the notes are dropping out of heaven itself, 
and you hear him when he is gone from sight, and 
you think you hear him long after all sound has 
ceased, 

And yet this boy sang better than a lark, because 
he had more notes and a greater compass and more 


A CONTRAST 135 


volume, although he shook out his voice in the same 
gleesome abundance. 

I am sorry that I cannot add that this ravishingly 
beautiful boy was a good boy. He was probably 
one of the most mischievous boys that was ever in 
an organ-loft. All the time that he was singing the 
vespers he was skylarking like an imp. While he 
was pouring out the most divine melody, he would 
take the opportunity of kicking the shins of the 
boy next to him, and while he was waiting for his ~ 
part, he would kick out behind at any one who was 
incautious enough to approach him. There never 
was such a vicious boy; he kept the whole loft in a 
ferment. When the monk rumbled his bass in his 
stomach, the boy cut up monkey-shines that set 
every other boy into a laugh, or he stirred up a row 
that set them all at fisticuffs. 

And yet this boy was a great favorite. The jolly 
monk loved him best of all, and bore with his wild- 
est pranks. When he was wanted to sing his part 
and was skylarking in the rear, the fat monk took 
him by the ear and brought him forward ; and when 
he gave the boy’s ear a twist, the boy opened his 
lovely mouth and poured forth such a flood of 
melody as you never heard. And he didn’t mind 
his notes; he seemed to know his notes by heart, 
and could sing and look off like a nightingale on a 
bough. He knew his power, that boy; and he 
stepped forward to his stand when he pleased, cer- 
tain that he would be forgiven as soon as he began 
to sing. And such spirit and life as he threw into 
the performance, rollicking through the Vespers 


136 BEING A BOY 


with a perfect abandon of carriage, as if he could 
sing himself out of his skin if he liked. 

While the little angels down below were pattering 
about with their wax tapers, keeping the holy fire 
burning, suddenly the organ stopped, the monk 
shut his book with a bang, the boys blew out the 
candles, and I heard them all tumbling down-stairs 
in a gale of noise and laughter. The beautiful boy 
I saw no more. 

About him plays the light of tender memory ; 
but were he twice as lovely, I could never think of 
him as having either the simple manliness or the 


good fortune of the New England boy. 


ON HORSEBACK 





ON HORSEBACK 


I 


P NAHE way to mount a horse ” — said the Pro- 
fessor. 
“If you have no ladder’ — put in the 
Friend of Humanity. 

The Professor had ridden through the war for the 
Union on the right side, enjoying a much better 
view of it than if he had walked, and knew as much 
about a horse as a person ought to know for the sake 
of his character. The man who can recite the tales 
of the Canterbury Pilgrims, on horseback, giving 
the contemporary pronunciation, never missing an 
accent by reason of the trot, and at the same time 
witch North Carolina and a strip of East Tennessee 
with his noble horsemanship, is a kind of Literary 
Centaur of whose double instruction any Friend of 
Humanity may be glad to avail himself. 

“The way to mount a horse is to grasp the mane 
with the left hand holding the bridle-rein, put your 
left foot in the stirrup, with the right hand on the 
back of the saddle, and ’’?— 

Just then the horse stepped quickly around on his 
hind feet, and looked the Professor in the face. The 
Superintendents of Affairs, who occupy the flagging 
in front of the hotel, seated in cane-bottomed chairs 

tilted back, smiled. These useful persons appear to 


ta 


140 ON HORSEBACK 


have a life-lease of this portion of the city pavement, 
and pretty effectually block it up nearly all day and 
evening. When a lady wishes to make her way 
through the blockade, it is the habit of these observ- 
ers of life to rise and make room, touching their hats, 
while she picks her way through, and goes down the 
street with a pretty consciousness of the flutter she 
has caused. The war has not changed the Southern 
habit of sitting out-of-doors, but has added a new 
element of street picturesqueness in groups of colored 
people lounging about the corners. There appears to 
be more leisure than ever. 

The scene of this little lesson in horsemanship was 
the old town of Abingdon, in southwest Virginia, on 
the Virginia and East Tennessee railway ; a town of 
ancient respectability, which gave birth to the John- 
stons and Floyds and other notable people; a town 
that still preserves the flavor of excellent tobacco and 
something of the easy-going habits of the days of 
slavery, and is a sort of educational center, where the 
young ladies of the region add the final graces of in- 
tellectual life in moral philosophy and the use of the 


globes to their natural gifts. The mansion of the late _ 


and left Floyd is now a seminary, and not far from 
it is the Stonewall Jackson Institute, in the midst of 
a grove of splendid oaks, whose stately boles and 
wide-spreading branches give a dignity to educa- 
tional life. The distinction of the region is its superb 
oak-trees. As it was vacation in these institutions of 
learning, the travelers did not see any of the vines 
that traditionally cling to the oak. 

The Professor and the Friend of Humanity were 














ON HORSEBACK 141 


about starting on a journey, across country south- 
ward, through regions about which the people of 
Abingdon could give little useful information. Ifthe 
travelers had known the capacities and resources of the 
country, they would not have started without a sup- 
ply train, or the establishment of bases of provisions 
in advance. But, as the Professor remarked, know- 
ledge is something that one acquires when he has no 
use forit. The horses were saddled ; the riders were 
equipped with flannel shirts and leather leggings; the 
saddle-bags were stuffed with clean linen, and novels, 
and sonnets of Shakespeare, and other baggage, — 
it would have been well if they had been stuffed with 
hard-tack, for in real life meat is more than raiment. 

The hotel, in front of which there is cultivated so 
much of what the Germans call sitzfleisch, is a fair 
type of the majority of Southern hotels, and differs 
from the same class in the North in being left a little 
more torunitself. The only information we obtained 
about it was from its porter at the station, who re- 
plied to the question, “ Is it the best?” “ We warrant 
you perfect satisfaction in every respect.” This seems 
to be only a formula of expression, for we found that 
the statement was highly colored. It was left to our 
imagination to conjecture how the big chambers of 
the old house, with their gaping fireplaces, might 
have looked when furnished and filled with gay com- 
pany, and we got what satisfaction we could out of a 
bygone bustle and mint-julep hilarity. In our strug- 
gles with the porter to obtain the little items of soap, 
water, and towels, we were convinced that we had 
arrived too late, and that for perfect satisfaction we 


142 ON HORSEBACK 


should have been here before the war. It was not 
always as now. In colonial days the accommodations 
and prices at inns were regulated by law. In the old 
records in the court-house we read that if we had been 
here in 1777, we could have had a gallon of good 
rum for sixteen shillings ; a quart bowl of rum toddy 
made with loaf sugar for two shillings, or with brown 
sugar for one shilling and sixpence. In 1779 prices 
had risen. Good rum sold for four pounds a gallon. 
It was ordered that a warm dinner should cost twelve 
shillings, a cold dinner nine shillings, and a good 
breakfast twelve shillings. But the item that pleased 
us most, and made us regret our late advent, was 
that for two shillings we could have had a “ good 
lodging, with clean sheets.” The colonists were fas- 
tidious people. 

Abingdon, prettily situated on rolling hills, and a 
couple of thousand feet above the sea, with views of 
mountain peaks to the south, is a cheerful and not 
too exciting place for a brief sojourn, and hospitable 
and helpful to the stranger. We had dined —so 
much, at least, the public would expect of us — with 
a descendant of Pocahontas; we had assisted on 
Sunday morning at the dedication of a new brick 
Methodist church, the finest edifice in the region, — 
a dedication that took a long time, since the bishop 
would not proceed with it until money enough was 
raised in open meeting to pay the balance due on it: 
a religious act, though it did give a business aspect 
to the place at the time; and we had been the light 
spots in the evening service at the most aristocratic 
church of color. The irresponsibility of this amiable 


ON HORSEBACK 143 


race was exhibited in the tardiness with which they 
assembled: at the appointed time nobody was there 
except the sexton; it was three quarters of an hour 
before the congregation began to saunter in, and the 
sermon was nearly over before the pews were at all 
filled. Perhaps the sermon was not new, but it was 
fervid, and at times the able preacher roared so that 
articulate sounds were lost in the general effect. It 
was precisely these passages of cataracts of sound and 
hard breathing which excited the liveliest responses, 
— “Yes, Lord,” and “Glory to God.” Most of 
these responses came from the “ Amen corner.” The 
sermon contained the usual vivid description of the 
last judgment-ah, and | fancied that the congregation 
did not get the ordinary satisfaction out of it. Fashion 
had entered the fold, and the singing was mostly 
executed bya choir in the dusky gallery, who thinly 
and harshly warbled the emotional hymns. It occu- 
pied the minister a long time to give out the notices 
of the week, and there was not an evening or after- 
noon that had not its meetings, its literary or social 
gathering, its picnic or fair for the benefit of the 
church, its Dorcas society, or some occasion of reli- 
gious sociability. The raising of funds appeared to be 
the burden on the preacher’s mind. Two collections 
were taken up. At the first, the boxes appeared to 
get no supply except from the two white trash pre- 
sent. But the second was more successful. After the 
sermon was over, an elder took his place at a table 
within the rails, and the real business of the evening 
began. Somebody in the Amen corner struck up a 
tune that had no end, but a mighty power of setting 


144 ON HORSEBACK 


the congregation in motion. The leader had a voice 
‘like the pleasant droning ofa bag-pipe, andthe faculty 
of emitting a continuous note like that instrument, 
without stopping to breathe. It went on and on like 
a Bach fugue, winding and whining its way, turning 
the corners of the lines of the catch without a break. 
The effect was soon visible in the emotional crowd : 
feet began to move in a regular cadence and voices 
to join in, with spurts of ejaculation; and soon, with 
an air of martyrdom, the members began to leave 
their seats and pass before the table and deposit their 
contributions. It was a cent contribution, and we 
found it very difficult, under the contagious influence 
of the hum from the Amen corner, not to rise and 
go forward and deposit a cent. If anything could 
extract the pennies from a reluctant worldling, it 
would be the buzzing of this tune. It went on and 
on, until the house appeared to be drained dry of its 
cash ; and we inferred by the stopping of the mel- 
ody that the preacher’s salary was secure for the time 
being. On inquiring, we ascertained that the pecu- 
niary flood that evening had risen to the height of a 
dollar and sixty cents. 

All was ready for the start. It should have been © 
early in the morning, but it was not; for Virginia is 
not only one of the blessed regions where one can 
get a late breakfast, but where it is almost impossible 
to get an early one. At ten a. m. the two horsemen 
rode away out of sight of the Abingdon spectators, 
down the eastern turnpike. The day was warm, but 
the air was full of vitality and the spirit of adventure. 
It was the 22d of July. The horses were not ambi- 


ON HORSEBACK ° 146 


tious, but went on at an easy fox-trot that permits 
observation and encourages conversation. It had 
been stipulated that the horses should be good walk- 
ers, the one essential thing in a horseback journey. 
Few horses, even in a country where riding is gen- 
eral, are trained to walk fast. We hearmuch of horses 
that can walk five miles an hour, but they are as rare 
as white elephants. Our horses were only fair walk- 
ers. We realized how necessary this accomplishment 
is, for between the Tennessee line and Asheville, 
North Carolina, there is scarcely a mile of trotting- 
ground. 

We soon turned southward and descended into the 
Holston River Valley. Beyond lay the Tennessee 
hills and conspicuous White-Top Mountain (5530 
feet), which has a good deal of local celebrity (stand- 
ing where the States of Virginia, Tennessee, and 
North Carolina corner), and had been pointed out 
to us at Abingdon. We had been urged, personally 
and by letter, to ascend this mountain, without fail. 
People recommend mountains to their friends as 
they do patent medicines. As we leisurely jogged 
along we discussed this, and endeavored to arrive 
at some rule of conduct for the journey. The Pro- 
fessor expressed at once a feeling about mountain- 
climbing that amounted to hostility, — he would go 
nowhere that he could not ride. Climbing was the 
most unsatisfactory use to which a mountain could 
be put. As to White-Top, it was a small mountain, 
and not worth ascending. The Friend of Humanity, 
who believes in mountain-climbing as a theory, and 


for other people, and knows the value of being able 
Io 


146 ON HORSEBACK 


to say, without detection, that he has ascended any 
high mountain about which he is questioned, — since 
this question is the first one asked about an explo- 
ration in a new country,— saw that he should have 
to use a good deal of diplomacy to get the Professor 
over any considerable elevation on the trip. And he 
had to confess also that a view from a mountain is 
never so Satisfactory as a view of a mountain, from 
a moderate height. The Professor, however, did not 
argue the matter on any such reasonable ground, but 
took his stand on his right as a man not to ascend 
a mountain. With this appeal to first principles, — 
a position that could not be confuted on account of — 
its vagueness (although it might probably be demon- 
strated that in society man has no such right), — 
there was no way of agreement except by a compro- 
mise. It was accordingly agreed that no mountain 
under six thousand feet is worth ascending; that 
disposed of White-Top. It was further agreed that 
any mountain that is over six thousand feet high is 
too high to ascend on foot. 

With this amicable adjustment we forded the 
Holston, crossing it twice within a few miles. This 
upper branch of the Tennessee is a noble stream, © 
broad, with a rocky bed and a swift current. Ford- 
ing it is ticklish business except at comparatively low 
water, and as it 1s subject to sudden rises, there must 
be times when it seriously interrupts travel. This 
whole region, full of swift streams, is without a 
bridge, and, as a consequence, getting over rivers 
and brooks and the dangers of ferries occupy a 
prominent place in the thoughts of the inhabitants. 


ON HORSEBACK 147 


The life necessarily had the “frontier” quality all 
through, for there can be little solid advance in civil- 
ization in the uncertainties of a bridgeless condition. 
An open, pleasant valley, the Holston, but cultiva- 
tion is more and more negligent and houses are few 
and poorer as we advance. 

We had left behind the hotels of “ perfect satis- 
faction,” and expected to live on the country, trust- 
ing to the infrequent but remunerated hospitality of 
the widely scattered inhabitants. We were to dine 
at Ramsey’s. Ramsey’s had been recommended to 
us as a royal place of entertainment, the best in all 
that region; and as the sun grew hot in the sandy 
valley, and the weariness of noon fell upon us, we 
magnified Ramsey’s in our imagination, — the nobil- 
ity of its situation, its cuisine, its inviting restfulness, 
—and half decided to pass the night there in the 
true abandon of plantation life. Long before we 
reached it, the Holston River which we followed 
had become the Laurel, a most lovely, rocky, wind- 
ing stream, which we forded continually, for the 
valley became too narrow much of the way to ac- 
commodate a road and ariver. Eagerly as we were 
looking out for it, we passed the great Ramsey’s 
without knowing it, for it was the first of a little 
settlement of two houses and a saw-mill and barn. 
It was a neat log house of two lower rooms and a 
summer kitchen, quite the best of the class that we 
saw, and the pleasant mistress of it made us welcome. 
Across the road and close to the Laurel was the 
spring-house, the invariable adjunct to every well- 
to-do house in the region, and on the stony margin 


148 ON HORSEBACK 


of the stream was set up the big caldron for the 
family washing; and here, paddling in the shallow 
stream, while dinner was preparing, we established 
an intimacy with the children and exchanged philo- 
sophical observations on life with the old negress 
who was dabbling the clothes. What impressed this 
woman was the inequality in life. She jumped to 
the unwarranted conclusion that the Professor and 
the Friend were very rich, and spoke with asperity 
of the difficulty she experienced in getting shoes and 
tobacco. It was useless to point out to her that her 
al fresco life was singularly blessed and free from 
care, and the happy lot of any one who could loiter 
all day by this laughing stream, undisturbed by debt 
or ambition. Everybody about the place was bare- 
footed, except the mistress, including the comely 
daughter of eighteen, who served our dinner in the 
kitchen. The dinner was abundant, and though it 
seemed to us incongruous at the time, we were not 
twelve hours older when we looked back upon it 
with longing. On the table were hot biscuit, ham, 
pork, and green beans, apple-sauce, blackberry pre- 
serves, cucumbers, coffee, plenty of milk, honey, and 
apple and blackberry pie. Here we had our first 
experience, and I may say new sensation, of “ honey 
on pie.’ It has a cloying sound as it is written, but 
the handmaiden recommended it with enthusiasm, 
and we evidently fell in her esteem, as persons from 
an uncultivated society, when we declared our inex- 
perience of “ honey on pie.” “ Where be you from?” 
It turned out to be very good, and we have tried to 
introduce it in families since our return, with indif- 


ON HORSEBACK 149 


ferent success. There did not seem to be in this 
family much curiosity about the world at large, nor 
much stir of social life. The gayety of madame 
appeared to consist in an occasional visit to paw and 
maw and grandmaw, up the river a few miles, where 
she was raised. 

Refreshed by the honey and fodder at Ramsey’s, 
the pilgrims went gayly along the musical Laurel, in 
the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, which played 
upon the rapids and illumined all the woody way. 
Inspired by the misapprehension of the colored phi- 
losopher and the dainties of the dinner, the Pro- 
fessor soliloquized : 


««So am I as the rich, whose blessed key 
Can bring him to his sweet up-lockéd treasure, 
The which he will not every hour survey, 
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, 
Since seldom coming, in the long year set, 
Like stones of wealth they thinly placéd are, 
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.”’ 


Five miles beyond Ramsey’s the Tennessee line was 
crossed. The Laurel became more rocky, swift, full 
of rapids, and the valley narrowed down to the river- 
way, with standing room, however, for stately trees 
along the banks. The oaks, both black and white, 
were, as they had been all day, gigantic in size and 
splendid in foliage. There is a certain dignity in 
riding in such stately company, and the travelers clat- 
tered along over the stony road under the impression 
of possible high adventure in a new world of such 
freshness. Nor was beauty wanting. The rhododen- 


150 ON HORSEBACK 


drons had, perhaps, a week ago reached their climax, 
and now began to strew the water and the ground 
with their brilliant petals, dashing all the way with 
color; but they were still matchlessly beautiful. 
Great banks of pink and white covered the steep 
hillsides ; the bending stems, ten to twenty feet high, 
hung their rich clusters over the river; avenues 
of glory opened away in the glade of the stream ; 
and at every turn of the winding way vistas glowing 
with the hues of romance wrenched exclamations of 
delight and wonder from the Shakespearean son- 
neteer and his humble Friend. In the deep recesses 
of the forest suddenly flamed to the view, like the 
splashes of splendor on the somber canvas of an old 
Venetian, these wonders of color,—the glowing 
summer-heart of the woods. 

It was difficult to say, meantime, whether the road 
was laid out in the river, or the river in the road. 
In the few miles to Egger’s (this was the destination 
of our great expectations for the night) the stream © 
was crossed twenty-seven times,—or perhaps it 
would be more proper to say that the road was 
crossed twenty-seven times. Where the road did not 
run in the river, its bed was washed out and as stony 
as the bed of the stream. This is a general and accu- 
rate description of all the roads in this region, which 
wind along and in the streams, through narrow val- 
leys, shut in by low and steep hills. The country is 
full of springs and streams, and between Abingdon 
and Egger’s is only one (small) bridge. In a region 
with scarcely any level land or intervale, farmers 
are at a disadvantage. All along the road we saw 


ON HORSEBACK Ig 


nothing but mean shanties, generally of logs, with 
now and then a decent one-story frame, and the peo- 
ple looked miserably poor. 

As we picked our way along up the Laurel, obliged 
for the most part to ride single-file, or as the Pro- 
fessor expressed it, 


«* Let me confess that we two must be twain, 
Although our undivided loves are one,”’ 


we gathered information about Egger’s from the 
infrequent hovels on the road, which inflamed our 
imaginations. Egger was the thriving man of the 
region, and lived in style in a big brick house. We 
began to feel a doubt that Egger would take us in, 
and so much did his brick magnificence impress us 
that we regretted we had not brought apparel fit for 
the society we were about to enter. 

It was half-past six, and we were tired and hungry, 
when the domain of Egger towered in sight, —a 
gaunt, two-story structure of raw brick, unfinished, 
standing in a narrow intervale. We rode up to the 
gate, and asked a man who sat in the front-door 
porch if this was Egger’s, and if we could be accom- 
modated for the night. The man, without moving, 
allowed that it was Egger’s, and that we could prob- 
ably stay there. This person, however, exhibited so 
much indifference to our company, he was such a 
hairy, unkempt man, and carried on face, hands, and 
clothes so much more of the soil of the region than 
a prudent proprietor would divert from raising corn, 
that we set him aside as a poor relation, and asked 
for Mr. Egger. But the man, still without the least 


152 ON HORSEBACK 


hospitable stir, admitted that that was the name he 
went by, and at length advised us to “lite” and 
hitch our horses, and sit on the porch with him and 
enjoy the cool of the evening. The horses would be 
put up by and by, and in fact things generally would 
come round some time. This turned out to be the 
easy way of the country. Mr. Egger was far from 
being inhospitable, but was in no hurry, and never 
had been in a hurry. He was not exactly a gentle- 
man of the old school. He was better than that. 
He dated from the time when there were no schools 
at all, and he lived in that placid world which is 
without information and ideas. Mr. Egger showed 
his superiority by a total lack of curiosity about any 
other world. 

This brick house, magnificent by comparison with 
other dwellings in this country, seemed to us, on 
nearer acquaintance, only a thin, crude shell of a 
house, half unfinished, with bare rooms, the plastering 
already discolored. In point of furnishing it had not 
yet reached the “‘ God bless our Home” stage in 
crewel. In the narrow meadow, a strip of vivid green 
south of the house, ran a little stream, fed by a copi- © 
ous spring, and over it was built the inevitable spring- 
house. A post, driven into the bank by the stream, 
supported a tin wash-basin, and here we performed 
our ablutions. The traveler gets to like this freedom 
and primitive luxury. 

The farm of Egger produces corn, wheat, grass, 
and sheep; it is a good enough farm, but most of 
it lies at an angle of thirty-five to forty degrees. 
The ridge back of the house, planted in corn, was 


ON HORSEBACK 153 


as steep as the roof of his dwelling. It seemed in- 
credible that it ever could have been plowed, but 
the proprietor assured us that it was plowed with 
mules, and I judged that the harvesting must be 
done by squirrels. The soil is good enough, if it 
would stay in place, but all the hillsides are seamed 
with gullies. The discolored state of the streams was 
accounted for as soon as we saw this cultivated land. 
No sooner is the land cleared of trees and broken 
up than it begins to wash. We saw more of this 
later, especially in North Carolina, where we encoun- 
tered no stream of water that was not muddy, and 
saw no cultivated ground that was not washed. The 
process of denudation is going on rapidly wherever 
the original forests are girdled (a common way of 
preparing for crops), or cut away. 

As the time passed and there was no sign of sup- 
per, the question became a burning one, and we 
went to explore the kitchen. No sign of it there. 
No fire in the stove, nothing cooked in the house, 
of course. Mrs. Egger and her comely young bare- 
footed daughter had still the milking to attend to, 
and supper must wait for the other chores. It seemed 
easier to be Mr. Egger, in this state of existence, and 
sit on the front porch and meditate on the price of 
mules and the prospect of a crop, than to be Mrs. 
Egger, whose work was not limited from sun to 
sun; who had, in fact, a day’s work to do after 
the men-folks had knocked off; whose chances of 
neighborhood gossip were scanty, whose amusements 
were confined toa religious meeting once a fortnight. 


Good, honest people these, not unduly puffed up 


154 ON HORSEBACK 


by the brick house, grubbing away year in and year 
out. Yes, the young girl said, there was a neighbor- 
hood party, now and then, in the winter. What a 
price to pay for mere life! 

Long before supper was ready, nearly nine o'clock, 
we had almost lost interest in it. Meantime two 
other guests had arrived, a couple of drovers from 
North Carolina, who brought into the circle — by 
this time a wood-fire had been kindled in the sitting- 
room, which contained a bed, an almanac, and some 
old copies of a newspaper— a rich flavor of cattle, 
and talk of the price of steers. As to politics, 
although a presidential campaign was raging, there 
was scarcely an echo of it here. This was Johnson 
County, Tennessee, a strong Republican county ; 
but dog-gone it, says Mr. Egger, it’s no use to vote ; 
our votes are overborne by the rest of the State. 
Yes, they’d got a Republican member of Con- 
gress,— he ’d heard his name, but he ’d forgotten it. 
The drover said he ’d heard it also, but he didn’t take 
much interest in such things, though he was n’t any 
Republican. Parties is pretty much all for office, both 
agreed. Even the Professor, who was traveling in 
the interest of Reform, could n’t wake up a discus- 
sion out of such a state of mind. 

Alas ! the supper, served in a room dimly lighted 
with a smoky lamp, ona long table covered with 
oilcloth, was not of the sort to arouse the delayed 
and now gone appetite of a Reformer, and yet it 
did not lack variety: corn-pone (Indian meal stirred 
up with water and heated through), hot biscuit, slack- 
baked and livid, fried salt-pork swimming in grease, 


ON HORSEBACK 155 


apple-butter, pickled beets, onions and cucumbers 
raw, coffee (so-called), buttermilk, and sweet milk 
when specially asked for (the correct taste, however, 
is for buttermilk), and pie. This was not the pie of 
commerce, but the pie of the country, — two thick 
slabs of dough, with a squeezing of apple between. 
The profusion of this supper staggered the novices, 
but the drovers attacked it as if such cooking were 
a common occurrence, and did justice to the weary 
labors of Mrs. Egger. 

Egger is well prepared to entertain strangers, hav- 
ing several rooms and several beds in each room. 
Upon consultation with the drovers, they said they ’d 
just as soon occupy an apartment by themselves, and 
we gave up their society for the night. The beds in 
our chamber had each one sheet, and the room other- 
wise gave evidence of the modern spirit; for in one 
corner stood the fashionable esthetic decoration of 
our Queen Anne drawing-rooms,—the spinning- 
wheel. Soothed by this concession to taste, we 
crowded in between the straw and the home-made 
blanket and sheet, and soon ceased to hear the 
barking of dogs and the horned encounters of the 
drovers’ herd. 

We parted with Mr. Egger after breakfast (which 
was a close copy of the supper) with more respect 
than regret. His total charge for the entertainment 
of two men and two horses— supper, lodging, and 
breakfast — was high or low, as the traveler chose to 
estimate it. It was $1.20: that is, thirty cents for 
each individual, or ten cents for each meal and 


lodging. 


156 ON HORSEBACK 


Our road was a sort of by-way up Gentry Creek 
and over the Cut Laurel Gap to Worth’s, at Creston 
Post Office, in North Carolina, — the next available 
halting place, said to be fifteen miles distant, and 
turning out to be twenty-two, and a rough road. 
There is a little settlement about Egger’s, and the 
first half mile of our way we had the company of 
the schoolmistress, a modest, pleasant-spoken girl. 
Neither she nor any other people we encountered had 
any dialect or local peculiarity of speech. Indeed, 
those we encountered that morning had nothing in 
manner or accent to distinguish them. The novelists 
had led us to expect something different; and the 
modest and pretty young lady with frank and open 
blue eyes, who wore gloves and used the common 
English speech, had never figured in the fiction of 
the region. Cherished illusions vanish often on near 
approach. The day gave no peculiarity of speech to 
note, except the occasional use of “hit” for “it.” 

The road over Cut Laurel Gap was very steep and 
stony, the therrmometer mounted up to 80’, and, 
notwithstanding the beauty of the way, the ride 
became tedious before we reached the summit. On 
the summit is the dwelling and distillery of a colonel 
famous in these parts. We stopped at the house for 
a glass of milk; the colonel was absent, and while 
the woman in charge went after it, we sat on the 
veranda and conversed with a young lady, tall, gent, 
well favored, and communicative, who leaned in the 
doorway. 

“‘ Yes, this house stands on the line. Where you 
sit, you are in Tennessee; I’m in North Carolina.” 


ON HORSEBACK as. 


“Do you live here?” 

“ Law, no; I’m just staying a little while at the 
colonel’s. I live over the mountain here, three miles 
from Taylorsville. I thought I’d be where I could 
step into North Carolina easy.” 

“ How’s that?” 

“Well, they wanted me to go before the grand 
jury and testify about some pistol-shooting down by - 
our house, —some friends of mine got into a little 
difficulty, —and I didn’t want to. I never has no 
difficulty with nobody, never says nothing about © 
nobody, has nothing against nobody, and I reckon 
nobody has nothing against me.” 

“Did you come alone?” 

“Why, of course. I come across the mountain by 
a path through the woods. That’s nothing.” 

A discreet, pleasant, pretty girl. This surely must 
be the Esmeralda who lives in these mountains, and 
adorns low life by her virgin purity and sentiment. 
As she talked on, she turned from time to time to 
the fireplace behind her, and discharged a dark fluid 
from her pretty lips, with accuracy of aim, and with 
a nonchalance that was not assumed, but belongs to 
our free-born American girls. I cannot tell why this 
habit of hers (which is no worse than the sister habit 
of “ dipping’’) should take her out of the romantic 
setting that her face and figure had placed her in; 
but somehow we felt inclined to ride on farther for 
our heroine. 

«And yet,” said the Professor, as we left the site 
of the colonel’s thriving distillery, and by a winding, 
picturesque road through a rough farming country 


158 ON HORSEBACK 


descended into the valley, — ‘and yet, why fling 
aside so readily a character and situation so full of 
romance, on account of a habit of this mountain 
Helen, which one of our best poets has almost made 
poetical, in the case of the pioneer taking his west- 
ward way, with ox-goad pointing to the sky: 


<< « He’s leaving on the pictured rock 
His fresh tobacco stain.’ 


“To my mind the incident has Homeric elements. 
The Greeks would have looked at it in a large, 
legendary way. Here is Helen, strong and lithe of 
limb, ox-eyed, courageous, but woman-hearted and 
love-inspiring, contended for by all the braves and 
daring moonshiners of Cut Laurel Gap, pursued by 
the gallants of two States, the prize of a border 
warfare of bowie knives and revolvers. This Helen, 
magnanimous as attractive, is the witness of a pis- 
tol difficulty on her behalf, and when wanted by the 
areopagus, that she may neither implicate a lover nor 
punish an enemy (having nothing, this noble type of 
her sex, against nobody), skips away to Mount Ida, 


and there, under the egis of the flag of her country, ° 


in a Licensed Distillery, stands with one slender foot 
in Tennessee and the other in North Carolina” — 

“ Like the figure of the Republic itself, superior 
to state sovereignty,” interposed the Friend. 

“I beg your pardon,” said the Professor, urging 
up Laura Matilda (for so he called the nervous mare, _ 
who fretted herself into a fever in the stony path), 
“TY was quite able to get the woman out of that 
position without the aid of a metaphor. It is a large 


ON HORSEBACK 159 


and Greek idea, that of standing in two mighty States, 
superior to the law, looking east and looking west, 
ready to transfer her agile body to either State on the 
approach of messengers of the court; and I'll be 
hanged if I didn’t think that her nonchalant rumi- 
nation of the weed, combined with her lofty moral 
attitude, added something to the picture.” 

The Friend said that he was quite willing to join 
in the extremest defense of the privileges of beauty, 
—that he even held in abeyance judgment on the 
practice of dipping; but when it came to chewing, 
gum was as far as he could go as an allowance for 
the fair sex. 


«s When I consider everything that grows 
Holds in perfection but a little moment ’’— 


The rest of the stanza was lost, for the Professor was 
splashing through the stream. No sooner had we 
descended than the fording of streams began again. 
The Friend had been obliged to stipulate that the 
Professor should go ahead at these crossings, to keep 
the impetuous nag of the latter from throwing half 
the contents of the stream upon his slower and un- 
complaining companion. 

What a lovely country, but for the heat of noon 
and the long wearisomeness of the way ! — not that 
the distance was great, but miles and miles more than 
expected. How charming the open glades of the 
river, how refreshing the great forests of oak and 
chestnut, and what a panorama of beauty the banks 
of rhododendrons, now intermingled with the lighter 
pink and white of the laurel! In this region the 


160 ON HORSEBACK 


rhododendron is called laurel, and the laurel (the 
sheep-laurel of New England) is called ivy. 

At Worth’s, well on in the afternoon, we emerged 
into a wide, open farming intervale, a pleasant place 
of meadows and streams and decent dwellings. 
Worth’s is the trading center of the region, has a 
post office and a saw-mill and a big country store; 
and the dwelling of the proprietor is not unlike a 
roomy New England country house. Worth’s has 
been immemorially a stopping-place in a region 
where places of accommodation are few. The pro- 
prietor, now an elderly man, whose reminiscences 
are long ante bellum, has seen the world grow up 
about him, he the honored, just center of it, and 
a family come up into the modern notions of life, 
with a boarding-school education and glimpses of 
city life and foreign travel. I fancy that nothing but 
tradition and a remaining Southern hospitality could 
induce this private family to suffer the incursions 
of this wayfaring man. Our travelers are not apt to 
be surprised at anything in American life, but they 
did not expect to find a house in this region with 
two pianos and a bevy of young ladies, whose 
clothes were certainly not made on Cut Laurel Gap, 
and to read in the books scattered about the house 
the evidences of the finishing schools with which 
our country is blessed, nor to find here pupils of 
the Stonewall Jackson Institute at Abingdon. With 
a flush of local pride, the Professor took up, in the 
roomy, pleasant chamber set apart for the guests, a 
copy of Porter’s “ Elements of Moral Science.” 

“Where yousee the ‘ Elements of Moral Science,’” 


ON HORSEBACK 161 


the Friend generalized, “there ’ll be plenty of water 
and towels;” and the sign did not fail. The friends 
intended to read this book in the cool of the day; 
but as they sat on the long veranda, the voice of 
a maiden reading the latest novel to a sewing 
group behind the blinds in the drawing-room ; and 
the antics of amule and a boy in front of the store 
opposite ; and the arrival of a spruce young man, who 
had just ridden over from somewhere, a matter of ten 
miles’ gallop, to get a medicinal potion for his sick 
mother, and lingered chatting with the young ladies 
until we began to fear that his mother would recover 
before his return; the coming and going of lean 
women in shackly wagons to trade at the store ; the 
coming home of the cows, splashing through the 
stream, hooking right and left, and lowing for the hand 
of the milker,—all these interruptions, together 
with the generally drowsy quiet of the approach of 
evening, interfered with the study of the Elements. 
And when the travelers, after a refreshing rest, went 
on their way next morning, considering the Ele- 
ments and the pianos and the refinement, to say 
nothing of the cuisine, which is not treated of in 
the text-book referred to, they were content with a 
bill double that of brother Egger, in his brick mag- 
nificence. 

The simple truth is, that the traveler in this re- 
gion must be content to feed on natural beauties. 
And it is an unfortunate truth in natural history that 
the appetite for this sort of diet fails after a time, 
if the inner man is not supplied with other sort of 
food. There is no landscape in the world that is 

J 43 


162 ON HORSEBACK 


agreeable after two days of rusty bacon and slack 
biscuit. 

“ How lovely this would be,” exclaimed the Pro- 
fessor, “if it had a background of beefsteak and 
conee |)’ 

We were riding along the west fork of the Laurel, 
_ distinguished locally as Three Top Creek, — or, 
rather, we were riding in it, crossing it thirty-one 
times within six miles ; a charming wood (and water) 
road, under the shade of fine trees, with the rhodo- 
dendron illuminating the way, gleaming in the forest 
and reflected in the stream, all the ten miles to Elk 
Cross Roads, our next destination. We had heard a 
great deal about Elk Cross Roads ; it was on the map, 
it was down in the itinerary furnished by a member 
of the Coast Survey. We looked forward to it asa 
sweet place of repose from the noontide heat. Alas! 
Elk Cross Roads is a dirty grocery store, encumbered 
with dry-goods boxes, fly-blown goods, flies, loafers. 
In reply to our inquiry we were told that they had 
nothing to eat, for us, and not a grain of feed for 
the horses. But there was a man a mile farther on, 
who was well to do and had stores of food, — old 
man Tatem would treat us in bang-up style. The 
difficulty of getting feed for the horses was chronic 
all through the journey. The last corn crop had 
failed, the new oats and corn had not come ‘in, and 
the country was literally barren. We had noticed all 
along that the hens were taking a vacation, and that 
chickens were not put forward as an article of diet. 

We were unable, when we reached the residence 
of old man Tatem, to imagine how the local super- 


ON HORSEBACK 163 


stition of his wealth arose. His house is of logs, with 
two rooms, a kitchen and a spare room, with a low 
loft accessible by a ladder at the side of the chimney. 
The chimney is a huge construction of stone, sepa- 
rating the two parts of the house ; in fact, the chim- 
ney was built first, apparently, and the two rooms 
were then built against it. The proprietor sat ina . 
little railed veranda. These Southern verandas give 
an air to the meanest dwelling, and they are much 
used ; the family sit here, and here are the wash- 
basin and pail (which is filled from the neighboring 
spring-house), and the row of milk-pans. The old 
man Tatem did not welcome us with enthusiasm ; he 
had no corn, —these were hard times. He looked 
like hard times, grizzled times, dirty times. It seemed 
time out of mind since he had seen comb or razor, 
and although the lovely New River, along which we 
had ridden to his house, —a broad, inviting stream, 
— was in sight across the meadow, there was no evi- 
dence that he had ever made acquaintance with its 
cleansing waters. As to corn, the necessities of the 
case and pay being dwelt on, perhaps he could find 
a dozen ears. A dozen small ears he did find, and 
we trust that the horses found them. 
_ Wetooka family dinner with old man Tatem in the 
kitchen, where there was a bed and a stove, —a meal 
that the host seemed to enjoy, but which we could 
not make much of, except the milk ; that was good. 
A painful meal, on the whole, owing to the presence 
in the roomof a grown-up daughter with a graveyard 
cough, without physician or medicine, or comforts. 
Poor girl! just dying of “a misery.” 


16aee ON HORSEBACK 


In the spare room were two beds; the walls were 
decorated with the gay-colored pictures of patent- 
medicine advertisements — a favorite art adornment 
of the region ; and a pile of ancient illustrated papers 
with the usual patent-office report, the thoughtful 
gift of the member for the district. The old man 
takes in the “ Blue Ridge Baptist,” a journal which 
we found largely taken up with the experiences of its 
editor on his journeys roundabout in search of sub- 
scribers. This newspaper was the sole communication 
of the family with the world at large, but the old man 
thought he should stop it, — he did n’t seem to get 
the worth of his money out of it. And old man Ta- 
tem was a thrifty and provident man. On the hearth 
in this best room — as ornaments or memento mori — 
were a couple of marble gravestones, a short head- 
stone and foot-stone, mounted on bases and ready for 
use, except the lettering. These may not have been 
so mournful and significant as they looked, nor the 
evidence of simple, humble faith; they may have 
been taken for debt. But as parlor ornaments they 
had a fascination which we could not escape. 

It was while we were bathing in the New River, 
that afternoon, and meditating on the grim, unre- 
lieved sort of life of our host, that the Professor said, 
“« Judging by the face of the ‘Blue Ridge Baptist,’ he 
will charge us smartly for the few nubbins of corn and 
the milk.” The face did not deceive us; the charge 
was one dollar. At this rate it would have broken 
us to have tarried with old man Tatem (perhaps 
he is not old, but that is the ‘name he goes by) over 
night. 


ON HORSEBACK 165 


It was a hot afternoon, and it needed some cour- 
age to mount and climb the sandy hill leading us 
away from the corn-crib of Tatem. But we entered 
almost immediately into fine stretches of forest, and 
rode under the shade of great oaks. The way, which 
began by the New River, soon led us over the hills 
to the higher levels of Watauga County. So far on 
our journey we had been hemmed in by low hills, 
and without any distant or mountain outlooks. The 
excessive heat seemed out of place at the elevation of 
over two thousand feet, on which we were traveling. 
Boone, the county seat of Watauga County, was our 
destination, and, ever since morning, the guide- 
boards and the trend of the roads had notified us that 
everything in this region tends towards Boone as a 
center of interest. The simple ingenuity of some of 
the guide-boards impressed us. If, on coming to a 
fork, the traveler was to turn to the right, the sign 
read, 

To Boone 10 M. 
If he was to go to the left, it read, 


.M or ENOOB oT 


A short ride of nine miles, on an ascending road, 
through an open, unfenced forest region, brought us 
long before sundown to this capital. When we had 
ridden into its single street, which wanders over 
gentle hills, and landed at the most promising of the 
taverns, the Friend informed his comrade that Boone 
was 3250 feet above Albemarle Sound, and believed 
by its inhabitants to be the highest village east of the 
Rocky Mountains. The Professor said that it might 


166 ON HORSEBACK 


be so, but it was a God-forsaken place. Its inhabit- 
ants numbered perhaps two hundred and fifty, a few 
of them colored. It had a gaunt, shaky court-house 
and jail, a store or two, and two taverns. The two 
taverns are needed to accommodate the judges and 
lawyers and their clients during the session of the 
court. The court is the only excitement and the only 
amusement. It is the event from which other events 
date. Everybody in the county knows exactly when 
court sits, and when court breaks. During the ses- 
sion the whole county is practically in Boone, men, 
women, and children. They camp there, they attend 
the trials, they take sides ; half of them, perhaps, are 
witnesses, for the region is litigious, and the neighbor- 
hood quarrels are entered into with spirit. To be 
fond of lawsuits seems a characteristic of an isolated 
people in new conditions. The early settlers of New 
England were. 

Notwithstanding the elevation of Boone, which 
insured a pure air, the thermometer that afternoon 
stood at from 85° to 89°. The flies enjoyed it. How 
they swarmed in this tavern! They would have car- 
ried off all the food from the dining-room table (for 
flies do not mind eating off oilcloth, and are not 
particular how food is cooked), but for the machine 
with hanging flappers that swept the length of it; 
and they destroy all possibility of sleep except in the 
dark. The mountain regions of North Carolina are 
free from mosquitoes, but the fly has settled there, 
and is the universal scourge. This tavern, one end 
of which was a store, had a veranda in front, and a 
back gallery, where there were evidences of female 


ON HORSEBACK 167 


refinement in pots of plants and flowers. The land- 
lord himself kept tavern very much as a hostler 
would, but we had to make a note in his favor that 
he had never heard of a milk punch. And it might 
as well be said here, for it will have to be insisted on 
later, that the traveler, who has read about the illicit 
stills till his imagination dwells upon the indulgence 
of his vitiated tastes in the mountains of North Car- 
olina, is doomed to disappointment. If he wants to 
make himself an exception to the sober people whose 
cooking will make him long for the maddening bowl, 
he must bring his poison with him. We had found 
no bread since we left Virginia ; we had seen corn- 
meal and water, slack-baked ; we had seen potatoes 
fried in grease, and bacon incrusted with salt (all 
thirst-provokers), but nothing to drink stronger 
than buttermilk. And we can say that, so far as our 
example is concerned, we left the country as temper- 
ate as we found it. How can there be mint juleps (to 
go into details) without ice? and in the summer there 
is probably not a pound of ice in all the State north 
of Buncombe County. 

There is nothing special to be said about Boone. 
We were anxious to reach it, we were glad to leave 
it; we note as to all these places that our joy at 
departing always exceeds that on arriving, which is 
a merciful provision of nature for people who must 
keep moving. This country is settled by genuine 
Americans, who have the aboriginal primitive traits 
of the universal Yankee nation. The front porch in 
the morning resembled a carpenter’s shop; it was 
literally covered with the whittlings of the row of 


168 ON HORSEBACK 


natives who had spent the evening there in the seda- 
tive occupation of whittling. 

We took that morning a forest road to Valle 
Crusis, seven miles, through noble growths of oaks, 
chestnuts, hemlocks, rhododendrons, — a charming 
wood road, leading to a place that, as usual, did not 
keep the promise of its name. Walle Crusis has a 
blacksmith shop and a dirty, fly-blown store. While 
the Professor consulted the blacksmith about a loose 
shoe, the Friend carried his weariness of life with- 
out provisions up to a white house on the hill, and 
negotiated for boiled milk. This house was occu- 
pied by flies. They must have numbered millions, 
settled in black swarms, covering tables, beds, walls, 
the veranda; the kitchen was simply a hive of them. 
The only book in sight, Whewell’s “ Elements of 
Morality,’ seemed to attract flies. Query, Why 
should this have such a different effect from Por- 
ter’s? A white house, —a pleasant-looking house at 
a distance, amiable, kindly people in it, — why 
should we have arrived there on its dirty day? Alas! 
if we had been starving, Valle Crusis had nothing to. 
offer us. 

So we rode away, in the blazing heat, no poetry 
exuding from the Professor, eight miles to Banner’s 
Elk, crossing a mountain and passing under Hang- 
ing Rock, a conspicuous feature in the landscape, 
and the only outcropping of rock we had seen: the. 
face of a ledge, rounded up into the sky, with a 
green hood on it. From the summit we had the first 
extensive prospect during our journey. The road 
can be described as awful, — steep, stony, the horses 


ON HORSEBACK 169 


unable to make two miles an hour on it. Now and 
then we encountered a rude log cabin without barns 
or outhouses, and a little patch of feeble corn. The 
women who regarded the passers from their cabin 
doors were frowzy and looked tired. What with the 
heat and the road and this discouraged appearance 
of humanity, we reached the residence of Dugger, 
at Banner’s Elk, to which we had been directed, 
nearly exhausted. It is no use to represent this as a 
dash across country on impatient steeds. It was not 
so. The love of truth is stronger than the desire of 
display. And for this reason it is impossible to say 
that Mr. Dugger, who is an excellent man, lives in a 
clean and attractive house, or that he offers much 
that the pampered child of civilization can eat. But 
we shall not forget the two eggs, fresh from the hens, 
whose temperature must have been above the nor- 
mal, nor the spring-house in the glen, where we found 
a refuge from the flies and the heat. The higher we 
go, the hotter it is. Banner’s Elk boasts an elevation 
of thirty-five to thirty-seven hundred feet. 

We were not sorry, towards sunset, to descend 
along the Elk River towards Cranberry Forge. The 
Elk is a lovely stream, and, though not very clear, 
has a reputation for trout; but all this region was 
under operation of a three-years game law, to give 
the trout a chance to multiply, and we had no 
opportunity to test the value of its reputation. Yet 
a boy whom we encountered had a good string of 
‘quarter-pound trout, which he had taken out with a 
hook and a feather rudely tied on it, to resemble a fly. 
The road, though not to be commended, was much 


170 ON HORSEBACK 


better than that of the morning, the forests grew 
charming in the cool of the evening, the whippoor- 
will sang, and as night fell the wanderers, in want of 
nearly everything that makes life desirable, stopped 
at the Iron Company’s hotel, under the impres- 
sion that it was the only comfortable hotel in North 
Carolina. 


II 


of civilization fairly driven into the north- 

west mountains of North Carolina. A narrow- 
gauge railway, starting from Johnson City, follows 
up the narrow gorge of the Doe River, and pushes 
into the heart of the iron mines at Cranberry, where 
there is a blast furnace; and where a big company 
store, rows of tenement houses, heaps of slag and 
refuse ore, interlacing tracks, raw embankments, 
denuded hillsides, and a blackened landscape, are 
the signs of a great devastating American enterprise. 
The Cranberry iron is in great esteem, as it has the 
peculiar quality of the Swedish iron. There are re- 
mains of old furnaces lower down the stream, which 
we passed on our way. The present “plant” is that 
of a Philadelphia company, whose enterprise has 
infused new life into all this region, made it access- 
ible, and spoiled some pretty scenery. 

When we alighted, weary, at the gate of the pretty 
hotel, which crowns a gentle hill and commands a 
pleasing, evergreen prospect of many gentle hills, 
a mile or so below the works, and wholly removed 
from all sordid associations, we were at the point 
of willingness that the whole country should be 
devastated by civilization. In the local imagination 


(Jor cvitzation FORGE is the first wedge 


172 ON HORSEBACK 


this hotel of the company is a palace of unequaled 
magnificence, but probably its good taste, com- 
fort, and quiet elegance are not appreciated after ail. 
There is this to be said about Philadelphia, — and 
it will go far in pleading for it in the Last Day 
against its monotonous rectangularity and the babel- 
like ambition of its Public Building, —that wherever 
its influence extends, there will be found comforta- 
ble lodgings and the luxury of an undeniably excel- 
lent cuisine. The visible seal that Philadelphia sets 
on its enterprise all through the South is a good 
hotel. 

This Cottage Beautiful has on two sides a wide 
veranda, set about with easy chairs; cheerful par- 
lors and pretty chambers, finished in native woods, 
among which are conspicuous the satin stripes of 
the cucumber-tree; luxurious beds, and an inviting 
table, ordered by a Philadelphia landlady, who knows 
a beefsteak from a boot-tap. Is it “low” to dwell 
upon these things of the senses, when one is on a 
tour in search of the picturesque? Let the reader 
ride from Abingdon through a wilderness of corn- 
pone and rusty bacon, and then judge. There were, 
to be sure, novels lying about, and newspapers, and 
fragments of information to be picked up about a 
world into which the travelers seemed to emerge. 
They, at least, were satisfied, and went off to their 
rooms with the restful feeling that they had arrived 
somewhere, and no unquiet spirit at morn would 
say “to horse.” To sleep, perchance to dream of 
Tatem and his household cemetery ; and the Pro- 
fessor was heard muttering in his chamber, 


ON HORSEBACK 173 


‘* Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, 
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; 
But then begins a journey in my head, 
To work my mind, when body’s work ’s expir’d.”’ 


The morning was warm (the elevation of the hotel 
must be between twenty-five hundred and three 
thousand feet), rainy, mildly rainy ; and the travelers 
had nothing better to do than lounge upon the 
veranda, read feeble ten-cent fictions, and admire the 
stems of the white birches, glistening in the moisture, 
and the rhododendron-trees, twenty feet high, which 
were shaking off their last pink blossoms, and look 
down into the valley of the Doe. It is not an excit- 
ing landscape, nothing bold or specially wild in it, 
but restful with the monotony of some of the wooded 
Pennsylvania hills. 

Sunday came up smiling, a lovely day, but offer- 
ing no church privileges, for the ordinance of preach- 
ing is only occasional in this region. The ladies of 
the hotel have, however, gathered in the valley a 
Sunday-school of fifty children from the mountain 
cabins. A couple of rainy days, with the thermome- 
ter rising to 80°, combined with natural laziness to 
detain the travelers in this cottage of ease. They 
enjoyed this the more because it was on their con- 
sciences that they should visit Linville Falls, some 
twenty-five miles eastward, long held up before them 
as the most magnificent feature of this region, and 
on no account to be omitted. Hence, naturally, a 
strong desire to omit it. The Professor takes bold 
ground against these abnormal freaks of nature, and 
it was nothing to him that the public would demand 


174 ON HORSEBACK 


that we should see Linville Falls. In the first place, 
we could find no one who had ever seen them, and 
we spent two days in catechizing natives and stran- 
gers. The nearest we came to information was from 
a workman at the furnace, who was born and raised 
within three miles of the Falls. He had heard of 
people going there. He had never seen them him- 
self. It was a good twenty-five miles there, over the 
worst road in the State — wed think it thirty before 
we got there. Fifty miles of such travel to see a 
little water run down-hill! The travelers reflected. 
Every country has a local waterfall of which it 
boasts; they had seen a great many. One more 
would add little to the experience of life. The 
vagueness of information, to be sure, lured the trav- 
elers to undertake the journey; but the temptation 
was resisted — something ought to be left for the 
next explorer — and so Linville remains a thing of 
the imagination. ; 

Towards evening, July 29, between showers, the 
Professor and the Friend rode along the narrow- 
gauge road, down Johnson’s Creek, to Roan Station, 
the point of departure for ascending Roan Moun- ° 
tain. It was a ride of an hour and a half over a fair 
road, fringed with rhododendrons, nearly blossom- 
less; but at a point on the stream this sturdy shrub 
had formed a long bower whereunder a table might 
have been set for a temperance picnic, completely 
overgrown with wild grape, and still gay with bloom. 
The habitations on the way are mostly board shan- 
ties and mean frame cabins, but the railway is intro- 
ducing ambitious architecture here and there in the 


ON HORSEBACK 176 


form of ornamental filigree work on flimsy houses; 
ornamentation is apt to precede comfort in our civil- 
ization. 

Roan Station is on the Doe River (which flows 
down from Roan Mountain), and is marked at 2650 
feet above the sea. The visitor will find here a good 
hotel, with open wood fires (not ungrateful ina July 
evening), and obliging people. This railway from 
Johnson City, hanging on the edge of the precipices 
that wall the gorge of the Doe, is counted in this 
region by the inhabitants one of the engineering 
wonders of the world. The tourist is urged by all 
means to see both it and Linville Falls. 

The tourist on horseback, in search of exercise and 
recreation, is not probably expected to take stock of 
moral conditions. But this Mitchell County, although 
it was a Union county during the war and is Repub- 
lican in politics (the Southern reader will perhaps 
prefer another adverb to “although’’), has had the 
worst possible reputation. The mountains were hid- 
ing-places of illicit distilleries; the woods were full 
of grog-shanties, where the inflaming fluid was sold 
as “native brandy,” quarrels and neighborhood diffi- 
culties were frequent, and the knife and pistol were 
used on the slightest provocation. Fights arose about 
boundaries and the title to mica mines, and with the 
revenue officers ; and force was the arbiter of all dis- 
putes. Within the year four murders were committed 
in the sparsely settled county. Travel on any of the 
roads was unsafe. The tone of morals was what might 
be expected with such lawlessness. A lady who came 
up on the road on the 4th of July, when an excur- 


176 ON HORSEBACK 


sion party of country people took possession of the 
cars, witnessed a scene and heard language past be- 
lief. Men, women, and children drank from whisky 
bottles that continually circulated, and a wild orgy 
resulted. Profanity, indecent talk on topics that 
even the license of the sixteenth century would not 
have tolerated, and freedom of manners that even 
Teniers would have shrunk from putting on canvas, 
made the journey horrible. 

The unrestrained license of whisky and assault 
and murder had produced a reaction a few months 
previous to our visit. The people had risen up in 
their indignation and broken up the groggeries. So 
far as we observed temperance prevailed, backed by 
public opinion. In our whole ride through the moun- 
tain region we saw only one or two places where 
liquor was sold. 

It is called twelve miles from Roan Station to 
Roan Summit. The distance is probably nearer four- 
teen, and our horses were five hours in walking 
it. For six miles the road runs by Doe River, 
here a pretty brook shaded with laurel and rhodo- 
dendron, and a few cultivated patches of ground, and 
infrequent houses. It was a blithe morning, and the 
horsemen would have given full indulgence to the 
spirit of adventure but for the attitude of the Pro- 
fessor towards mountains. It was not with him a mat- 
ter of feeling, but of principle, not to ascend them. 
But here lay Roan, a long, sprawling ridge, lifting 
itself 6250 feet up into the sky. Impossible to go 
around it, and the other side must be reached. The 
Professor was obliged to surrender, and surmount a 


ON HORSEBACK i777 
difficulty which he could not philosophize out of 


his mind. 

From the base of the mountain a road is very well 
engineered, in easy grades for carriages, to the top; 
but it was in poor repair and stony. We mounted 
slowly through splendid forests, specially of fine 
chestnuts and hemlocks. This big timber continues 
till within a mile and a half of the summit by the wind- 
ing road, really within a short distance of the top. 
Then there is a narrow belt of scrubby hardwood, 
moss-grown, and then large balsams, which crown the 
mountain. As soon as we came out upon the southern 
slope we found great open spaces, covered with suc- 
culent grass, and giving excellent pasturage to cattle. 
These rich mountain meadows are found on all the 
heights of this region. The surface of Roan is uneven, 
and has no one culminating peak that commands the 
country, like the peak of Mount Washington, but 
several eminences within its range of probably a mile 
and a half, where various views can be had. Near the 
highest point, sheltered from the north by balsams, . 
stands a house of entertainment, with a detached 
cottage, looking across the great valley to the Black 
Mountain range. The surface of the mountain is 
pebbly, but few rocks crop out; no ledges of any size 
are seen except at a distance from the hotel, on the 
north side, and the mountain consequently lacks that 
savage, unsubduable aspect which the White Hills of 
New Hampshire have. It would, in fact, have been 
dificult to realize that we were over six thousand 
feet above the sea, except for that pallor in the sun- 


light, that atmospheric thinness and want of color 
12 


178 ON HORSEBACK 


which is an unpleasant characteristic of high altitudes. 
To be sure, there is a certain brilliancy in the high 
air, —it is apt to be foggy on Roan, —and objects 
appear in sharp outline, but I have often experienced 
on such places that feeling of melancholy, which 
would, of course, deepen upon us all if we were 
sensible that the sun was gradually withdrawing its 
power of warmth and light. The black balsam is 
neither a cheerful nor a picturesque tree; the frequent 
rains and mists on Roan keep the grass and mosses 
green, but the ground damp. Doubtless a high 
mountain covered with vegetation has its compen- 
sation, but for me the naked granite rocks in sun 
and shower are more cheerful. 

The advantage of Roan is that one can live there 
and be occupied for a long time in mineral and botan- 
ical study. Its mild climate, moisture, and great 
elevation make it unique in this country for the bot- 
anist. The variety of plants assembled there is very 
large, and there are many, we were told, never or 
rarely found elsewhere in the United States. At any 
rate, the botanists rave about Roan Mountain, and 
spend weeks at a time on it. We found there ladies » 
who could draw for us Grey’s lily (then passed), and 
had kept specimens of the rhododendron (not grow- 
ing elsewhere in this region) which has a deep red, 
almost purple color. 

The hotel (since replaced by a good house) was a 
rude mountain structure, with a couple of comfort- 
able rooms for office and sitting-room, in which big 
wood fires were blazing ; for though the thermometer 
might record 60°, as it did when we arrived, fire was 


™ 
ra 


ON HORSEBACK 179 


welcome. Sleeping-places partitioned off in the loft 
above gave the occupants a feeling of camping out, 
all the conveniences being primitive; and when the 
wind rose in the night and darkness, and the loose 
boards rattled and the timbers creaked, the sensation 
was not unlike that of being at sea. The hotel was 
satisfactorily kept, and Southern guests, from as far 
south as New Orleans, were spending the season 
there, and not finding time hang heavy on their 
hands. This statement is perhaps worth more than 
pages of description as to the character of Roan, and 
its contrast to Mount Washington. 

The summer weather is exceedingly uncertain on 
all these North Carolina mountains; theyare apt at 
any moment to be enveloped in mist; and it would 
rather rain on them than not. On the afternoon of 
our arrival there was fine air and fair weather, but not 
a clear sky. The distance was hazy, but the outlines 
were preserved. We could see White Top, in Vir- 
ginia; Grandfather Mountain, a long serrated range ; 
the twin towers of Linville; and the entire range of 
the Black Mountains, rising from the valley, and 
apparently lower than we were. They get the name 
of Black from the balsams which cover the summits. 

The rain on Roan was of less annoyance by reason 
of the delightful company assembled at the hotel, 
which was in a manner at home there, and, thrown 
upon its own resources, came out uncommonly strong 
in agreeableness. There was a fiddle in the house, 
which had some of the virtues of that celebrated in 
the history of old Mark Langston; the Professor 
was enabled to produce anything desired out of the 


180 ON HORSEBACK 


literature of the eighteenth century ; and what with 
the repartee of bright women, big wood fires, reading, 
and chat, there was no dull day or evening on Roan. 
I can fancy, however, that it might tire in time, if one 
were not a botanist, without the resource of women’s 
society. he ladies staying here were probably all 
accomplished botanists, and the writer is indebted 
to one of them for a list of plants found on Roan, 
among which is an interesting weed, catalogued as 
Humana, perplexia negligens. ‘The species is, however, 
common elsewhere. 

The second morning opened, aftera night of high 
wind, with a thunder-shower. After it passed, the 
visitors tried to reach Eagle Cliff, two miles off, 
whence an extensive western prospect is had, but 
were driven back by a tempest, and rain practically 
occupied the day. Now and then through the parted 
clouds we got a glimpse of a mountain-side, or the 
gleam of a valley. On the lower mountains, at wide 
intervals apart, were isolated settlements, commonly 
a wretched cabin and a spot of girdled trees. A 
clergyman here, not long ago, undertook to visit 
some of these cabins and carry his message to them. 
‘In one wretched hut of logs he found a poor woman, 
with whom, after conversation on serious subjects, he 
desired to pray. She offered no objection, and he 
kneeled down and prayed. The woman heard him, 
and watched him for some moments with curiosity, 
in an effort to ascertain what he was doing, and then 
sald : 

“Why, a man did that when he put my girl ina 
hole.” 


ON HORSEBACK 181 


Towards night the wind hauled round from the 
south to the northwest, and we went to High Bluff, 
a pointon the north edge, where some rocks are piled 
up above the evergreens, to get a view of the sun- 
set. In every direction the mountains were clear, 
and a view was obtained of the vast horizon and the 
hills and lowlands of several States — a continental 
prospect, scarcely anywhere else equaled for variety 
or distance. The grandeur of mountains depends 
mostly on the state of the atmosphere. Grandfather 
loomed up much more loftily than the day before, the 
giant range of the Blacks asserted itself in grim inac- 
cessibility, and we could see, a small pyramid on the 
southwest horizon, King’s Mountain in South Caro- 
lina, estimated to be distant one hundred and fifty 
miles. To the north Roan falls from this point 
abruptly, and we had, like a map below us, the low 
country all the way into Virginia. The clouds lay 
like lakes in the valleys of the lower hills, and in 
every direction were ranges of mountains wooded to 
the summits. Off to the west by south lay the Great 
Smoky Mountains, disputing eminence with the 
Blacks. 

Magnificent and impressive as the spectacle was, 
we were obliged to contrast it unfavorably with that 
of the White Hills. The rock here is a sort of sand 
or pudding stone; there is no limestone or granite. 
And all the hills are tree-covered. To many this 
clothing of verdure is most restful and pleasing. I 
missed the sharp outlines, the delicate artistic sky 
lines, sharply defined in uplifted bare granite peaks 
and ridges, with the purple and violet color of the 


182 ON HORSEBACK 


northern mountains, and which it seems to me that 
limestone and granite formations give. There are 
none of the great gorges and awful abysses of the 
White Mountains, both valleys and mountains here 
being more uniform in outline. There are few preci- 
pices and jutting crags, and less is visible of the giant 
ribs and bones of the planet. 

Yet Roan isa noble mountain. A lady from Ten- 
nessee asked me if I had ever seen anything to com- 
pare with it — she thought there could be nothing in 
the world. One has to dodge this sort of question 
in the South occasionally, not to offend a just local 
pride. It is certainly one of the most habitable of 
big mountains. It is roomy on top, there is space to 
move about without too great fatigue, and one might 
pleasantly spend a season there, if he had agreeable 
company and natural tastes. 

Getting down from Roan on the south side is not 
as easy as ascending on the north; the road for five 
miles to the foot of the mountain is merely a river 
of pebbles, gullied by the heavy rains, down which 
the horses picked their way painfully. The travelers 
endeavored to present a dashing and cavalier appear- 
ance to the group of ladies who waved good-by from 
the hotel, as they took their way over the waste and 
wind-blown declivities, but it was only a show, for the 
horses would neither caracole nor champ the bit (at 
a dollar a day) down-hill over the slippery stones, 
and, truth to tell, the wanderers turned with regret 
from the society of leisure and persiflage to face the 
wilderness of Mitchell County. 

“‘ How heavy,” exclaimed the Professor, pricking 


ON HORSEBACK 183 


Laura Matilda to call her attention sharply to her 
footing — 
«< How heavy do I journey on the way, 
When what I seek — my weary travel’s end — 
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 
« Thus far the miles are measur’d from thy friend!’ 
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, 
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, 
As if by some instinct the wretch did know 
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: 
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on 
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, 
Which heavily he answers with a groan, 
More sharp to me than spurring to his side; 
For that same groan doth put this in my mind; 
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.”’ 


This was not spoken to the group who fluttered their 
farewells, but poured out to the uncomplaining forest, 
which rose up in ever statelier and grander ranks to 
greet the travelers as they descended — the silent, 
vast forest, without note of bird or chip of squirrel, 
only the wind tossing the great branches high over- 
head in response to the sonnet. Is there any region 
or circumstance of life that the poet did not forecast 
and provide for? But what would have been his feel- 
ings if he could have known that almost three cen- 
turies after these lines were penned, they would be 
used to express the emotion of an unsentimental 
traveler in the primeval forests of the New World? 
At any rate, he peopled the New World with the 
children of his imagination. And, thought the Friend, 
whose attention to his horse did not permit him to 
drop into poetry, Shakespeare might have had a 


184 ON HORSEBACK 


vision of this vast continent, though he did not refer 
to it, when he exclaimed: 


«« What is your substance, whereof are you made, 
That millions of strange shadows on you tend ?”’ 


Bakersville, the capital of Mitchell County, is eight 
miles from the top of Roan, and the last three miles 
of the way the horsemen found tolerable going, over 
which the horses could show their paces. The valley 
looked fairly thrifty and bright, and was a pleasing 
introduction to Bakersville, a pretty place in the hills, 
of some six hundred inhabitants, with two churches, 
three indifferent hotels, and a court-house. This 
mountain town, 2550 feet above the sea, is said to 
have a decent winter climate, with little snow, favor- 
able to fruit-growing, and, by contrast with New 
England, encouraging to people with weak lungs. 

This is the center of the mica mining, and of con- 
siderable excitement about minerals. All around, the 
hills are spotted with “diggings.” Most of the mines 
which yield well show signs of having been worked 
before, a very long time ago, no doubt by the occu- 
pants before the Indians. The mica is of excellent 
quality and easily mined. It is got out in large irregu- 
lar-shaped blocks and transported to the factories, 
where it is carefully split by hand, and the laminz, 
of as large size as can be obtained, are trimmed with 
shears and tied up in packages for market. The 
quantity of refuse, broken, and rotten mica piled up 
about the factories is immense, and all the roads 
round about glisten with its scales. Garnets are often 
found imbedded in the lamina, flattened by the 


ON HORSEBACK 185 


extreme pressure to which the mass was subjected. 
It is fascinating material, this mica, to handle, and we 
amused ourselves by experimenting on the thinness 
to which its scales could be reduced by splitting. It 
was at Bakersville that we saw specimens of mica that 
resembled the delicate tracery in the moss-agate and 
had the iridescent sheen of the rainbow colors — the 
most delicate greens, reds, blues, purples, and gold, 
changing from one to the other in the reflected light. 
In the texture were the tracings of fossil forms of 
ferns and the most exquisite and delicate vegetable 
beauty of the coal age. But the magnet shows this 
tracery to be iron. We were shown also emeralds and 
“‘ diamonds,”’ picked up in this region, and there is a 
mild expectation in all the inhabitants of great min- 
eral treasure. A singular product of the region is the 
flexible sandstone. It is a most uncanny stone. A 
slip of ita couple of feet long and an inch in diameter 
each way bends in the hand like a half-frozen snake. 
This conduct of a substance that we have been taught 
to regard as inflexible impairs one’s confidence in the 
stability of nature and affects him as an earthquake 
does. 

This excitement over mica and other minerals has 
the usual effect of starting up business and creating 
bad blood. Fortunes have been made, and lost in 
riotous living; scores of visionary men have been 
disappointed; lawsuits about titles and claims have 
multiplied, and quarrels ending in murder have been 
frequent in the past few years. The mica and the 
illicit whisky have worked together to make this 
region one of lawlessness and violence. The travel- 


186 ON HORSEBACK 


ers were told stories of the lack of common morality 
and decency in the region, but they made no note 
of them. And, perhaps fortunately, they were not 
there during court week to witness the scenes of 
license that were described. This court week, which 
draws hither the whole population, is a sort of Satur- 
nalia. Perhaps the worst of this is already a thing of 
the past; for the outrages a year before had reached 
such a pass that by a common movement the sale 
of whisky was stopped (not interdicted, but stopped), 
and not a drop of liquor could be bought in Bakers- 
ville nor within three miles of it. 

The jail at Bakersville is a very simple residence. 
The main building is brick, two stories high and 
about twelve feet square. The walls are so loosely 
laid up that it seems as if a colored prisoner might 
butt his head through. Attached to this is a room 
for the jailer. In the lower room is a wooden cage, 
made of logs bolted together and filled with spikes, 
nine feet by ten feet square and perhaps seven or 
eight feet high. Between this cage and the wall is a 
space of eighteen inches in width. It has a narrow 
door, and an opening through which the food is 
passed to the prisoners, and a conduit leading out 
of it. Of course it soon becomes foul, and in warm 
weather somewhat warm. A recent prisoner, who 
wanted more ventilation than the State allowed him, 
found some means, by a loose plank, I think, to 
batter a hole in the outer wall opposite the window 
in the cage, and this ragged opening, seeming to the 
jailer a good sanitary arrangement, remains. Two 
murderers occupied this apartment at the time of our 


ON HORSEBACK 187 


visit. During the recent session of court, ten men 
had been confined in this narrow space, without room 
enough for them to lie down together. The cage in 
the room above, a little larger, had for tenant a per- 
son who was jailed for some misunderstanding about 
an account, and who was probably innocent — from 
the jailer’s statement. This box is a wretched resi- 
dence, month after month, while awaiting trial. 

We learned on inquiry that it is practically impos- 
sible to get a jury to convict of murder in this region, 
and that these admitted felons would undoubtedly 
escape. We even heard that juries were purchasable 
here, and that a man’s success in court depended 
upon the length of his purse. This is such an un- 
heard-of thing that we refused to credit it. When the 
Friend attempted to arouse the indignation of the 
Professor about the barbarity of this jail, the latter 
defended it on the ground that as confinement was 
the only punishment that murderers were likely to 
receive in this region, it was well to make their deten- 
tion disagreeable to them. But the Friend did not like 
this wild-beast cage for men, and could only exclaim, 
«Oh, murder! what crimes are done in thy name.” 

If the comrades wished an adventure, they had a 
small one, more interesting to them than to the pub- 
lic, the morning they left Bakersville to ride to Burns- 
ville, which sets itself up as the capital of Yancey. 
The way for the first three miles lay down a small 
creek and in a valley fairly settled, the houses, a store, 
and a grist-mill giving evidence of the new enterprise 
of the region. When Toe River was reached, there 

was a choice of routes. We might ford the Toe at 


188 ON HORSEBACK 


that point, where the river was wide, but shallow, 
and the crossing safe, and climb over the mountain 
by a rough but sightly road, or descend the stream 
by a better road and ford the river at a place rather 
dangerous to those unfamiliar with it. The danger 
attracted us, but we promptly chose the hill road 
on account of the views, for we were weary of the 
limited valley prospects. 

The Toe River, even here, where it bears westward, 
is a. very respectable stream in size, and not to be 
trifled with after a shower. It gradually turns north- 
ward, and, joining the Nollechucky, becomes part 
of the Tennessee system. We crossed it by a long, 
diagonal ford, slipping and sliding about on the 
round stones, and began the ascent of a steep hill. 
The sun beat down unmercifully, the way was stony, 
and the horses did not relish the weary climbing. 
The Professor, who led the way, not for the sake of 
Jeadership, but to be the discoverer of laden black- 
berry bushes, which began to offer occasional refresh- 
ment, discouraged by the inhospitable road and 
perhaps oppressed by the moral backwardness of 
things in general, cried out: 


‘¢’'Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, — 
As, to behold desert a beggar born, 
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity, 
And purest faith unhappily foresworn, 
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
And strength by limping sway disabled, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, 


ON HORSEBACK 189 


And simple truth miscall’d simplicity, 

And captive good attending captain ill: 
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, 
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.”’ 


In the midst of a lively discussion of this pessi- 
mistic view of the inequalities of life, in which desert 
and capacity are so often put at disadvantage by 
birth in beggarly conditions, and brazen assumption 
raises the dust from its chariot wheels for modest 
merit to plod along in, the Professor swung himself 
off his horse to attack a blackberry bush, and the 
Friend, representing simple truth, and desirous of 
getting a wider prospect, urged his horse up the 
hill. At the top he encountered a stranger, on a 
sorrel horse, with whom he entered into conversa- 
tion and extracted all the discouragement the man 
had as to the road to Burnsville. 

Nevertheless, the view opened finely and exten- 
sively. There are few exhilarations comparable to 
that of riding or walking along a high ridge, and the 
spirits of the traveler rose many degrees above the 
point of restful death, for which the Professor was 
crying when he encountered the blackberry bushes. 
Luckily the Friend soon fell in with a like tempta- 
tion, and dismounted. He discovered something 
that spoiled his appetite for berries. Huis coat, 
strapped on behind the saddle, had worked loose, 
the pocket was open, and the pocket-book was gone. 
This was serious business. For while the Professor 
was the cashier, and traveled like a Rothschild, with 
large drafts, the Friend represented the sub-treasury. 
That very morning, in response to inquiry as to the 


190 ON HORSEBACK 


sinews of travel, the Friend had displayed, without 
counting, a roll of bills. These bills had now dis- 
appeared, and when the Friend turned back to com- 
municate his loss, in the character of needy nothing 
not trimm’d in jollity, he had a sympathetic listener 
to the tale of woe. 

Going back on such a journey is the woefulest 
experience, but retrace our steps we must. Perhaps 
the pocket-book lay in the road not half a mile 
back. But not in half a mile, or a mile, was it 
found. Probably, then, the man on the sorrel horse 
had picked it up. But who was the man on the sor- 
rel horse, and where had he gone? Probably the 
coat worked loose in crossing Toe River and the 
pocket-book had gone down-stream. The number 
of probabilities was infinite, and each more plausible 
than the others as it occurred tous. We inquired at 
every house we had passed on the way, we questioned 
every one we met. At length it began to seem im- 
probable that any one would remember if he had 
picked up a pocket-book that morning. This is just 
the sort of thing that slips an untrained memory. 

At a post office or doctor’s shop, or inn for drov- 
ers, it might be either or neither, where several 
horses were tied to the fence, and a group of men 
were tilted back in cane chairs on the veranda, we 
unfolded our misfortune and made particular inqui- 
ries fora man ona sorrel horse. Yes, such a man, 
David Thomas by name, had just ridden towards 
Bakersville. If he had found the pocket-book, we 
would recover it. Hewasan honest man. It might, 
however, fall into hands that would freeze to it. 


ON HORSEBACK Ig! 


Upon consultation, it was the general verdict that 
there were men in the county who would keep it 
if they had picked it up. But the assembly mani- 
fested the liveliest interest in the incident. One 
suggested Toe River. Another thought it risky to 
drop a purse on any road. But there was a chorus of 
desire expressed that we should find it, and in this 
anxiety was exhibited a decided sensitiveness about - 
the honor of Mitchell County. It seemed too bad 
that a stranger should go away with the impression 
that it was not safe to leave money anywhere in it. 
We felt very much obliged for this genuine sympa- 
thy, and we told them that if a pocket-book were 
lost in this way on a Connecticut road, there would 
be felt no neighborhood responsibility for it, and 
that nobody would take any interest in the incident 
except the man who lost, and the man who found. 
By the time the travelers pulled up at a store in 
Bakersville they had lost all expectation of recover- 
ing the missing article, and were discussing the 
investment of more money in an advertisement in 
the weekly newspaper of the capital. The Professor, 
whose reform sentiments agreed with those of the 
newspaper, advised it. There was a group of idlers, 
mica acquaintances of the morning, and philosophers 
in front of the store, and the Friend opened the 
colloquy by asking ifa man named David Thomas 
had been seen intown. He was in town, had ridden 
in within an hour, and his brother, who was in the 
group, would go in search of him. The informa- 
tion was then given of the loss, and that the rider 
had met David Thomas just before it was discovered, 


192 ON HORSEBACK 


on the mountain beyond the Toe. The news made 
a sensation, and by the time David Thomas appeared 
a crowd of a hundred had drawn around the horse- 
men eager for further developments. Mr. Thomas 
was the least excited of the group as he took his 
position on the sidewalk, conscious of the dignity of 
the occasion and that he was about to begin a duel 
in which both reputation and profit were concerned. 
He recollected meeting the travelers in the morning. 

The Friend said, “I discovered that I had lost 
my purse just after meeting you; it may have been 
dropped in Toe River, but I was told back here that 
if David Thomas had picked it up, it was as safe as 
if it were in the bank.” 

“What sort of a pocket-book was it?” asked 
Mr. Thomas. 

“It was of crocodile skin, or what is sold for that, 
very likely it is an imitation, and about so large” 
— indicating the size. 

Sa hat had stun ates 

“Various things. Some specimens of mica; some 
bank checks, some money.” 

“ Anything else?” 

“Yes, a photograph. And, oh, something that I 
presume is not in another pocket-book in North 
Carolina, — in an envelope, a lock of the hair of 
George Washington, the Father of his Country.” 
Sensation, mixed with incredulity. Washington’s 
hair did seem such an odd part of an outfit for a 
journey of this kind. 

“* How much money was in it?” 

“That I cannot say, exactly. I happen to remem- 


ON HORSEBACK 193 


ber four twenty-dollar United States notes, and a 
roll of small bills, perhaps something over a hundred 
dollars.” 

“Is that the pocket-book?” asked David 
Thomas, slowly pulling the loved and lost out of 
his trousers pocket. 

So thiges, 

“You ’d be willing to take your oath on it?” 

“‘] should be delighted to.” 

“Well, I guess there ain’t so much money in it. 
You can count it [handing it over]; there hain’t 
been nothing taken out. I can’t read, but my friend 
here counted it over, and he says there ain’t as much 
as that.” 

Intense interest in the result of the counting. 
One hundred and ten dollars! The Friend selected 
one of the best engraved of the notes, and appealed 
to the crowd if they thought that was the square 
thing to do. They did so think, and David Thomas 
said it was abundant. And then said the Friend : 

“I’m exceedingly grateful to you besides. 
Washington’s hair is getting scarce, and I did not 
want to lose these few hairs, gray as they are. 
You ’ve done the honest thing, Mr. Thomas, as was 
expected of you. You might have kept the whole. 
But I reckon if there had been five hundred dollars 
in the book and you had kept it, it would n’t have 
done you half as much good as giving it up has 
done ; and your reputation as an honest man 1s worth 
a good deal more than this pocket-book. [The Pro- 
fessor was delighted with this sentiment, because it 
reminded him of a Sunday-school.] I shall go away 

13 


194 ON HORSEBACK 


with a high opinion of the honesty of Mitchell 
County.” 

“Oh, he lives in Yancey,” cried two or three 
voices. At which there was a great laugh. 

“Well, I wondered where he came from.” And 
the Mitchell County people laughed again at their 
own expense, and the levee broke up. It was exceed- 
ingly gratifying, as we spread the news of the recov- 
ered property that afternoon at every house on our 
way to the Toe, to see what pleasure it gave. Every 
man appeared to feel that the honor of the region 
had been on trial and had stood the test. 

The eighteen miles to Burnsville had now to be 
added to the morning excursion, but the travelers 
were in high spirits, feeling the truth of the adage 
that it is better to have loved and lost, than never 
to have lost at all. They decided, on reflection, to 
join company with the mail-rider, who was going to 
Burnsville by the shorter route, and could pilot 
them over the dangerous ford of the Toe. 

The mail-rider was a lean, sallow, sinewy man, 
mounted on a sorry sorrel nag, who proved, how- 
ever, to have blood in her, and to be a fast walker ., 
and full of endurance. The mail-rider was taciturn, 
a natural habit for a man who rides alone the year 
round, over a lonely road, and has nothing whatever 
to think of. He had been in the war sixteen months, 
in Hugh White’s regiment, — reckon you ’ve heerd 
of him? 

“* Confederate?” 

| Which? 7 

“Was he on the Union or Confederate side?” 


ON HORSEBACK 195 
“Oh, Union.” 


“Were you in any engagements?” 

« Which?” 

** Did you have any fighting?” 

“ Not reg’ lar.” 

“What did you do?” 

“© Which?” 

“ What did you do in Hugh White’s regiment?” 

‘Oh, just cavorted round the mountains.” 

“You lived on the country ?” 

«Which ?” | 

** Picked up what you could find, corn, bacon, 
horses ? ”’ 

‘That ’s about so. Did n’t make much difference 
which side was round, the country got cleaned out.” 

“‘ Plunder seems to have been the object ?” 

“© Which?” 

“You got a living out of the farmers? ” 

‘.¥ ou bet.”’ 

Our friend and guide seemed to have been a jay- 
hawker and mountain marauder — on the right side. 
His attachment to the word “ which”’ prevented any 
lively flow of conversation, and there seemed to be 
only two trains of ideas running in his mind: one 
was the subject of horses and saddles, and the other 
was the danger of the ford we were coming to, and he 
exhibited a good deal of ingenuity in endeavoring to 
excite our alarm. He returned to the ford from every 
other conversational excursion, and after every silence. 
“1 do’ know’s there ’s any great danger ; not if you 
know the ford. Folks is carried away there. The Toe 
gits up sudden. There’s been right smart rain lately. 


196 ON HORSEBACK 


If you’re afraid, you can git set over in a dugout, and 
I ll take your horses across. Mebbe you ’re used 
to fording? It’s a pretty bad ford for them as don’t 
know it. But you ’ll get along if you mind your eye. 
There’s some rocks you’ll have to look out for. 
But you ’ll be all right if you follow me.” 

Not being very successful in raising an interest in 
the dangers of his ford, although he could not forego 
indulging a malicious pleasure in trying to make the 
strangers uncomfortable, he finally turned his atten- 
tion to a trade. “ This hoss: of mine;~) he sarge as 
just the kind of brute-beast you want for this country. 
Your hosses is too heavy. How’ll you swap for that 
one o’ yourn?”’ The reiterated assertion that the 
horses were not ours, that they were hired, made little 
impression on him. All the way to Burnsville he 
kept referring to the subject of a trade. The instinct 
‘of “swap” was strong in him. When we meta yoke 
of steers, he turned round and bantered the owner 
fora trade. Our saddles took his fancy. They were 
of the army pattern, and he allowed that one of them 
would just suit him. He rodea small flat English pad, 
across which was flung the United States mail pouch, 
apparently empty. He dwelt upon the fact that his 
saddle was new and ours were old, and the advan- 
tages that would accrue to us from the exchange. He 
did n’t care if they had been through the war, as they 
had, for he fancied an army saddle. The Friend 
answered for himself that the saddle he rode belonged 
to a distinguished Union general, and had abullet in 
it that was put there bya careless Confederate in the 
first battle of Bull Run, and the owner would not 


ON HORSEBACK 197 


part with it for money. But the mail-rider said he 
did n’t mind that. He would n’t mind swapping his 
new saddle for my old one and the rubber coat and 
leggings. Long before we reached the ford we thought 
we would like to swap the guide, even at the risk of 
drowning. The ford was passed, in due time, with 
no inconvenience save that of wet feet, for the stream 
was breast high to the horses; but being broad and 
swift and full of sunken rocks and slippery stones, and 
the crossing tortuous, it is not a ford to be com- 
mended. There is a curious delusion that a rider has 
in crossing a swift broad stream. It is that he is rap- 
idly drifting up-stream, while in fact the tendency of 
the horse is to go with the current. 

The road in the afternoon was not unpicturesque, 
owing to the streams and the ever noble forests, but 
the prospect was always very limited. Agriculturally, 
the country was mostly undeveloped. The travelers 
endeavored to get from the rider an estimate of the 
price of land. Not much sold, he said. ‘“‘ There was 
one sale of a big piece last year; the owner entho- 
rited Big Tom Wilson to sell it, but I d’ know what 
he got for it.” 

All the way along, the habitations were small log 
cabins, with one room, chinked with mud, and these 
were far between; and only occasionally thereby a 
similar log structure, unchinked, laid up like a cob 
house, that served forastable. Not much cultivation, 
except now and then a little patch of poor corn on a 
steep hillside, occasionally a few apple-trees, and a 
peach-tree without fruit. Here and there was a house 


that had been half finished and then abandoned, or 


198 ON HORSEBACK 


a shanty in which a couple of young married people 
were just beginning life. Generally the cabins (con- 
firming the accuracy of the census of 1880) swarmed 
with children, and nearly all the women were thin 
and sickly. 

In the day’s ride we did not see a wheeled vehicle, 
and only now and then a horse.. We met on the 
road small sleds, drawn by a steer, sometimes by a 
cow, on which a bag of grist was being hauled to the 
mill, and boys mounted on steers gave us good- 
evening with as much pride as if they were bestrid- 
ing fiery horses. 

In a house of the better class, which was a post- 
house, and where the rider and the woman of the 
house had a long consultation over a letter to be | 
registered, we found the rooms decorated with patent- 
medicine pictures, which were often framed in strips 
of mica, an evidence of culture that was worth noting. 
Mica was the rage. Every one with whom we 
talked, except the rider, had more or less the min- 
eral fever. The impression was general that the 
mountain region of North Carolina was entering 
upon a career of wonderful mineral development, — 
and the most extravagant expectations were enter- 
tained. Mica was the shining object of most “ pro- 
specting,” but gold was also on the cards. 

The country about Burnsville is not only mildly 
picturesque, but very pleasing. Burnsville, the 
county-seat of Yancey, at an elevation of 2840 feet, 
is more like a New England village than any hitherto 
seen. Most of the houses stand about a square, 
which contains the shabby court-house; around it 


~ 


ON HORSEBACK 199 


are two small churches, a jail, an inviting tavern, 
with a long veranda, and a couple of stores. On an 
overlooking hill is the seminary. Mica mining is 
the exciting industry, but it is agriculturally a good 
country. The tavern had recently been enlarged to 
meet the new demands for entertainment, and is a 
roomy structure, fresh with paint and only partially 
organized. The travelers were much impressed with 
the brilliant chambers, the floors of which were 
painted in alternate stripes of vivid green and red. 
The proprietor, a very intelligent and enterprising 
man, who had traveled often in the North, was full 
of projects for the development of his region and 
foremost in its enterprises, and had formed a con- 
siderable collection of minerals. Besides, more than 
any one else we met, he appreciated the beauty of 
his country, and took us toa neighboring hill, where 
we had a view of Table Mountain to the east and 
the nearer giant Blacks. The elevation of Burns- 
ville gives it a delightful summer climate, the gentle 
undulations of the country are agreeable, the views 
noble, the air is good, and it is altogether a “liv- 
able” and attractive place. With facilities of commu- 
nication, it would be a favorite summer resort. Its 
nearness to the great mountains (the whole Black range 
is in Yancey County), its fine pure air, its opportu- 
nity for fishing and hunting, commend it to those in 
search of an interesting and restful retreat in summer. 

But it should be said that before the country can 
attract and retain travelers, its inhabitants must 
learn something about the preparation of food. If, 
for instance, the landlord’s wife at Burnsville had 


200 ON HORSEBACK 


traveled with her husband, her table would proba- 
bly have been more on a level with his knowledge 
of the world, and it would have contained something 
that the wayfaring man, though a Northerner, could 
eat. We have been on the point several times in 
this journey of making the observation, but have 
been restrained by a reluctance to touch upon polli- 
tics, that it was no wonder that a people with such 
a cuisine should have rebelled. The travelers were 
in a rebellious mood most of the time. 

The evidences of enterprise in this region were 
pleasant to see, but the observers could not but 
regret, after all, the intrusion of the money-making 
spirit, which is certain to destroy much of the pre- 
sent simplicity. It is as yet, to a degree, tempered by 
a philosophic spirit. The other guest of the house 
was a sedate, long-bearded traveler for some Phila- 
delphia house, and in the evening he and the land- 
lord fell into a conversation upon what Socrates calls 
the disadvantage of the pursuit of wealth to the 
exclusion of all noble objects, and they let their 
fancy play about Vanderbilt, who was agreed to be 
the richest man in the world, or that ever lived. 

“ All I want,” said the long-bearded man, “is 
enough to be comfortable. I would n’t have Vander- 
bilt’s wealth if he’d give it to me.” 

“Nor I,” said the landlord. “Give me just 
enough to be comfortable. [The tourist could n’t 
but note that his ideas of enough to be comfortable 
had changed a good deal since he had left his little 
farm and gone into the mica business, and visited 
New York, and enlarged and painted his tavern. | 


ON HORSEBACK 201 


I should like to know what more Vanderbilt gets 
out of his money than I get out of mine. I heard 
tell of a young man who went to Vanderbilt to get 
employment. Vanderbilt finally offered to give the 
young man, if he would work for him, just what he 
got himself. The young man jumped at that —he’d 
be perfectly satisfied with that pay. And Vanderbilt 
said that all he got was what he could eat and wear, 
and offered to give the young man his board and 
clothes.” 

‘1 declare,” said the long-bearded man. “That’s 
just it. Did you ever see Vanderbilt’s house? 
Neither did I, but I heard he had a vault built in it 
five feet thick, solid. He put in it two hundred 
millions of dollars, in gold. After a year, he opened 
it and put in twelve millions more, and called that 
a poor year. They say his house has gold shutters 
to the windows, so I’ve heard.” 

“T should n’t wonder,” said the landlord. “I 
heard he had one door in his house cost forty thou- 
sand dollars. I don’t know what it is made of, un- 
less it’s made of gold.” 

Sunday was a hot and quiet day. The stores were 
closed and the two churches also, this not being the 
Sunday for the itinerant preacher. The jail also 
showed no sign of life, and when we asked about it, 
we learned that it was empty, and had been for some 
time. No liquor is sold in the place, nor within at 
least three miles of it. It is not much use to try to 
run a jail without liquor. . 

_ In the course of the morning a couple of stout 
fellows arrived, leading between them a young man 


202 ON HORSEBACK 


whom they had arrested, — it did n’t appear on any 
warrant, but they wanted to get him committed and 
locked up. The offense charged was carrying a pis- 
tol; the boy had not used it against anybody, but 
he had flourished it about and threatened, and the 
neighbors would n’t stand that; they were bound to 
enforce ‘the law against carrying concealed weapons. 

The captors were perfectly good-natured and on 
friendly enough terms with the young man, who 
offered no resistance, and seemed not unwilling to 
go to jail. Buta practical difficulty arose. The jail 
was locked up, the sheriff had gone away into the 
country with the key, and no one could get in. It 
did not appear that there was any provision for board- 
ing the man in jail; no one in fact kept it. The 
sheriff was sent for, but was not to be found, and 
the prisoner and his captors loafed about the square 
all day, sitting on the fence, rolling on the grass, all 
of them sustained by a simple trust that the jail 
would be open some time. 

Late in the afternoon we left them there, trying 
to get into the jail. But we took a personal leaf out 
of this experience. Our Virginia friends, solicitous 
for our safety in this wild country, had urged us not 
to venture into it without arms —take at least, they 
insisted, a revolver each. And now we had to con- 
gratulate ourselves that we had not done so. If we 
had, we should doubtless on that Sunday have been 
waiting, with the other law-breaker, for admission 
into the Yancey County jail. 


Ill 


ROM Burnsville the next point in our route 
Hes Asheville, the most considerable city in 

western North Carolina, a resort of fashion, 
and the capital of Buncombe County. It is distant 
some forty to forty-five miles, too long a journey for 
one day over such roads. The easier and common 
route is by the Ford of Big Ivy, eighteen miles, — 
the first stopping-place; and that was a long ride 
for the late afternoon when we were in condition to 
move. | 
The landlord suggested that we take another route, 
stay that night on Caney River with Big Tom Wil- 
son, only eight miles from Burnsville, cross Mount 
Mitchell, and go down the valley of the Swannanoa 
to Asheville. He represented this route as shorter 
and infinitely more picturesque. There was nothing 
worth seeing on the Big Ivy way. With scarcely a 
moment’s reflection, and while the horses were sad- 
dling, we decided to ride to Big Tom Wilson’s. I 
could not at the time understand, and I cannot now, 
why the Professor consented. I should hardly dare 
yet confess to my fixed purpose to ascend Mount 
Mitchell. It was equally fixed in the Professor’s 
mind not to do it. We had not discussed it much. 
But it is safe to say that if he had one well-defined 
purpose on this trip, it was not to climb Mitchell. 
“ Not,” as he put it, — 


204 ON HORSEBACK 


<< Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,”’ 


had suggested the possibility that he could do it. 

But at the moment the easiest thing to do seemed 
to be to ride down to Wilson’s. When there we 
could turn across country to the Big Ivy, although, 
said the landlord, you can ride over Mitchell just 
as easy as anywhere—a lady rode plump over the 
peak of it last week, and never got off her horse. 
You are not obliged to go; at Big T’om’s, you can 
go any way you please. 

Besides, Big Tom himself weighed in the scale 
more than Mount Mitchell, and not to see him was 
to miss one of the most characteristic productions 
of the country, the typical backwoodsman, hunter, 
guide. So we rode down Bolling Creek, through a 
pretty, broken country, crossed the Caney River, 
and followed it up a few miles to Wilson’s planta- 
tion. There are little intervales along the river, 
where hay is cut and corn grown, but the region is 
not much cleared, and the stock browse about in the 
forest. Wilson is the agent of the New York owner 
of a tract of some thirteen thousand acres of forest, 
including the greater portion of Mount Mitchell, a 
wilderness well stocked with bears and deer, and full 
of streams abounding in trout. It is also the play- 
ground of the rattlesnake. With all these attrac- 
tions Big Tom’s life is made lively in watching game 
poachers, and endeavoring to keep out the foraging 
cattle of the few neighbors. It is not that the cattle 
do much injury in the forest, but the looking after 
them is made a pretense for roaming around, and the 


ON HORSEBACK 205 


roamers are liable to have to defend themselves 
against the deer, or their curiosity is excited about 
the bears, and lately they have taken to exploding 
powder in the streams to kill the fish. 

Big Tom’s plantation has an openwork stable, an 
ill-put-together frame house, with two rooms and a 
kitchen, and a veranda in front, a loft, and a spring- 
house in the rear. Chickens and other animals have 
free run of the premises. Some fish-rods hung in the 
porch, and hunter’s gear depended on hooks in the 
passage-way to the kitchen. In one room were three 
beds, in the other two, only one in the kitchen. On 
the porch was a loom, with a piece of cloth in pro- 
cess. The establishment had the air of taking care of 
itself. Neither Big Tom nor his wife was at home. 
Sunday seemed to be a visiting day, and the travel- 
ers had met many parties on horseback. Mrs. Wil- 
son was away for a visit of a day or two. One of 
the sons, who was lounging on the veranda, was at 
last induced to put up the horses ; a very old woman, 
who mumbled and glared at the visitors, was found 
in the kitchen, but no intelligible response could 
be got out of her. Presently a bright little girl, the 
housekeeper in charge, appeared. She said that her 
paw had gone up to her brother’s (her brother was 
just married and lived up the river in the house 
where Mr. Murchison stayed when he was here) to 
see if he could ketch a bear that had been rootin’ 
round in the corn-field the night before. She ex- 
pected him back by sundown —by dark anyway. 
Les he’d gone after the bear, and then you could n’t 
tell when he would come. 


206 ON HORSEBACK 


It appeared that Big Tom was a thriving man in 
the matter of family. More boys appeared. Only 
one was married, but four had “ got their time.” As 
night approached, and no Wilson, there was a good 
deal of lively and loud conversation about the stock 
and the chores, in all of which the girl took a leading 
and intelligent part, showing a willingness to do her 
share, but not to have all the work put upon her. It 
was time to go down the road and hunt up the cows ; 
the mule had disappeared and must be found before 
dark ; a couple of steers had n’t turned up since the 
day before yesterday, and in the midst of the gentle 
- contention as to whose business all this was, there 
was an alarm of cattle in the corn-patch, and the girl 
started off on a run in that direction. It was due to 
the executive ability of this small girl, after the cows 
had been milked and the mule chased and the boys 
properly stirred up, that we had supper. It was of 
the oilcloth, iron fork, tin spoon, bacon, hot bread 
and honey variety, distinguished, however, from all 
meals we had endured or enjoyed before by the intro- 
duction of fried eggs (as the breakfast next morn- 
ing was by the presence of chicken), and it was 
served by the active maid with right hearty good-will 
and genuine hospitable intent. 

While it was in progress, after nine o’clock, Big 
Tom arrived, and, with a simple greeting, sat down 
and attacked the supper and began to tell about 
the bear. There was not much to tell except that 
he hadn’t seen the bear, and that, judged by his 
tracks and his sloshing around, he must be a big one. 
But a trap had been set for him, and he judged it 


ON HORSEBACK 207 


would n’t be long before we had some bear meat. 
Big Tom Wilson, as he is known all over this part 
of the State, would not attract attention from his 
size. He is six feet and two inches tall, very spare 
and muscular, with sandy hair, long gray beard, and 
honest blue eyes. He has a reputation for great 
strength and endurance ; a man of native simplicity 
and mild manners. He had been rather expecting 
us from what Mr. Murchison wrote ; he wrote (his 
son had read out the letter) that Big Tom was to 
take good care of us, and anybody that Mr. Mur- 
chison sent could have the best he’d got. 

Big Tom joined us in our room after supper. 
This apartment, with two mighty feather-beds, was 
hung about with all manner of stuffy family clothes, 
and had in one end a vast cavern fora fire. The floor 
was uneven, and the hearthstones billowy. When 
the fire was lighted, the effect of the bright light in 
the cavern and the heavy shadows in the room was 
Rembrandtish. Big Tom sat with us before the 
fire and told bear stories. Talk? Why, it was not the 
least effort. The stream flowed on without a ripple. 
‘Why, the old man,” one of the sons confided to us 
next morning, “can begin and talk right over Mount 
Mitchell and all the way back, and never make a 
break.” Though Big Tom had waged a lifelong 
warfare with the bears, and taken the hide off at least 
a hundred of them, I could not see that he had any 
vindictive feeling towards the varmint, but simply an 
insatiable love of killing him, and he regarded him 
in that half-humorous light in which the bear always 
appears to those who study him. As to deer — he 


208 ON HORSEBACK 


could n’t tell how many of them he had slain. But 
Big Tom was a gentleman: he never killed deer for 
mere sport. With rattlesnakes, now, it was different. 
There was the skin of one hanging upon a tree by 
the route we would take in the morning, a buster, he 
skinned him yesterday. There was an entire absence; 
of braggadocio in Big Tom’s talk, but somehow, as 
he went on, his backwoods figure loomed larger and 
larger in our imagination, and he seemed strangely 
familiar. At length it came over us where we had 
met him before. It was in Cooper’s novels. He was 
the Leather-Stocking exactly. And yet he was an 
original ; for he assured us that he had never read the 
Leather-Stocking Tales. What a figure, I was think- 
ing, he must have made in the late war ! Such a shot, 
such a splendid physique, such iron endurance! I 
almost dreaded to hear his tales of the havoc he had 
wrought on the Unionarmy. Yes, he was in the war, 
he was sixteen months in the Confederate army, this 
Homeric man. In what rank? “ Oh, I wasa fifer!” 

But hunting and war did not by any means occupy 
the whole of Big Tom’s life. He was also engaged in 
“‘Jawin’.” He had a long-time feud with a neighbor - 
about a piece of land and alleged trespass, and they ’d 
been “ lawin’ ” for years, with no definite result ; but 
as a topic of conversation it was as fully illustrative 
of frontier life as the bear-fighting. 

Long after we had all gone to bed, we heard Big 
Tom’s continuous voice, through the thin partition 
that separated us from the kitchen, going on to his 
little boy about the bear; every circumstance of how 
he tracked him, and what corner of the field he 


ON HORSEBACK 209 


entered, and where he went out, and his probable size 
and age, and the prospect of his coming again; these 
were the details of real everyday life, and worthy to 
be dwelt on by the hour. The boy was never tired 
of pursuing them. And Big Tom was just a big boy, 
also, in his delight in it all. 

Perhaps it was the fascination of Big Tom, perhaps 
the representation that we were already way off the 
Big Ivy route, and that it would, in fact, save time to 
go over the mountain,and we could ride all the way, 
that made the Professor acquiesce, with no protest 
worth noticing, in the preparations that went on, as 
by a natural assumption, for going over Mitchell. At 
any rate, there was an early breakfast, luncheon was 
put up, and by half-past seven we were riding up the 
Caney,—a half-cloudy day,— Big Tom swinging 
along on foot ahead, talking nineteen to the dozen. 
There was a delightful freshness in the air, the dew- 
_laden bushes, and the smell of the forest. In half an 
hour we called at the hunting shanty of Mr. Murchi- 
son, wrote our names on the wall, according to cus- 
tom, and regretted that we could not stay fora day in 
that retreat and try the speckled trout. Making our 
way through the low growth and bushes of the valley, 
we came into a fine open forest, watered by a noisy 
brook, and after an hour’s easy going reached the 
serious ascent. 

From Wilson’s to the peak of Mitchell it is seven 
and a half miles; we made it in five and a half hours. 
A bridle path was cut years ago, but it has been 
entirely neglected. It is badly washed, it is stony, 
muddy, and great trees have fallen across it which 

14 


210 ON HORSEBACK 
wholly block the way for horses. At these places long 


detours were necessary, on steep hillsidesand through 
gullies, over treacherous sink-holes in the rocks, 
through quaggy places, heaps of brush, and rotten 
logs. Those who have ever attempted to get horses 
over such ground will not wonder at the slow pro- 
gress we made. Before we were halfway up the 
ascent, we realized the folly of attempting it on horse- 
back ; but then to go on seemed as easy as to go back. 
The way was also exceedingly steep in places, and 
what with roots, and logs, and slippery rocks and 
stones, it was a desperate climb for the horses. 

What a magnificent forest! Oaks, chestnuts, pop- 
lars, hemlocks, the cucumber (a species of magnolia, 
with a pinkish, cucumber-like cone), and all sorts 
of northern and southern growths meeting here in 
splendid array. And this gigantic forest, with little 
diminution in size of trees, continued two thirds of 
the way up. We marked, as we went on, the maple, 
the black walnut, the buckeye, the hickory, the locust, 
and the guide pointed out in one section the largest 
cherry-trees we had ever seen ; splendid trunks, each 
worth a large sum if it could be got to market. After 
the great trees were left behind, we entered a garden 
of white birches, and then a plateau of swamp, thick 
with raspberry bushes, and finally the ridges, densely 
crowded with the funereal black balsam. 

Halfway up, Big Tom showed us his favorite, the 
biggest tree he knew. It was a poplar, or tulip. It 
stands more like a column than a tree, rising high into 
the air, with scarcely a perceptible taper, perhaps sixty, 
more likely a hundred, feet before it puts out a limb. 


ON HORSEBACK ant 


Its girth six feet from the ground is thirty-two feet ! 
I think it might be called Big Tom. It stood here, 
of course, a giant, when Columbus sailed from Spain, 
and perhaps some sentimental traveler will attach the 
name of Columbus to it. 

In the woods there was not much sign of animal 
life, scarcely the note of a bird, but we noticed as we 
rode along in the otherwise primeval silence a loud 
and continuous humming overhead, almost like the 
sound of the wind in pine tops. It was the humming 
of bees! The upper branches were alive with these 
industrious toilers, and Big Tom was always on the 
alert to discover and mark a bee-gum, which he could 
visit afterwards. Honey hunting is one of his occu- 
pations. Collecting spruce gum is another, and he 
was continually hacking off with his hatchet knobs 
of the translucent secretion. How rich and fragrant 
are these forests! The rhododendron was still in 
occasional bloom, and flowers of brilliant hue gleamed 
here and there. 

The struggle was more severe as we neared the 
summit, and the footing worse for the horses. Occa- 
sionally it was safest to dismount and lead them up 
slippery ascents; but this was also dangerous, for it 
was difficult to keep them from treading on our heels, 
in their frantic flounderings, in the steep, wet, narrow, 
brier-grown path. At one uncommonly pokerish 
place, where the wet rock sloped into a bog, the rider 
of Jack thought it prudent to dismount, but Big Tom 
insisted that Jack would “ make it” all right, only 
give him his head. The rider gave him his head, and 
the next minute Jack’s four heels were in the air, and 


212 ON HORSEBACK 


he came down on his side in a flash. The rider fortu- 
nately extricated his leg without losing it, Jack scram- 
bled out with a broken shoe, and the two limped 
along. It was a wonder that the horses’ legs were not 
broken a dozen times. 

As we approached the top, Big Tom pointed out 
the direction, a half mile away, of a small pond, a 
little mountain tarn, overlooked by a ledge of rock, 
where Professor Mitchell lost his life. Big Tom was 
the guide that found his body. That day, as we sat 
on the summit, he gave in great detail the story, the 
general outline of which is well known. 

The first effort to measure the height of the Black 
Mountains was made in 1835, by Professor Elisha 
Mitchell, professor of mathematics and chemistry in 
the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. 
Mr. Mitchell was a native of Connecticut, born in 
Washington, Litchfield County, in 1793 ; graduated » 
at Yale, ordained a Presbyterian minister, and was 
for a time state surveyor; and became a professor at 
Chapel Hill in 1818. He first ascertained and pub- 
lished the fact that the Black Mountains are the 
highest land east of the Rocky Mountains. In 1844 ° 
he visited the locality again. Measurements were 
subsequently made by Professor Guyot and by Sen- 
ator Clingman. One of the peaks was named for the 
senator (the one next in height to Mitchell is de- 
scribed as Clingman on the state map), and a dispute 
arose as to whether Mitchell had really visited and 
measured the highest peak. Senator Clingman still 
maintains that he did not, and that the peak now 
known as Mitchell is the one that Clingman first 


ON HORSEBACK 21? 


described. The estimates of altitudes made by the 
three explorers named differed considerably. The 
height now fixed for Mount Mitchell is 6711; that 
of Mount Washington is 6285. There are twelve 
peaks in this range higher than Mount Washington, 
and if we add those in the Great Smoky Mountains 
which overtop it, there are some twenty in this State 
higher than the granite giant of New Hampshire. 
In order to verify his statement, Professor Mitchell 
(then in his sixty-fourth year) made a third ascent in 
June, 1857. He was alone, and went up from the 
Swannanoa side. He did not return. No anxiety was 
felt for two or three days, as he was a good moun- 
taineer, and it was supposed he had crossed the 
mountain and made his way out by the Caney River. 
But when several days passed without tidings of him, 
a search party was formed. Big Tom Wilson was 
with it. They explored the mountain in all directions 
unsuccessfully. At length Big Tom separated him- 
self from his companions and took a course in accord- 
ance with his notion of that which would be pursued 
by a man lost in the clouds or the darkness.. He soon 
struck the trail of the wanderer, and, following it, 
discovered Mitchell’s body lying in a pool at the foot 
of a rocky precipice some thirty feet high. It was 
evident that Mitchell, making his way along the ridge 
in darkness or fog, had fallen off. It was the ninth 
(or the eleventh) day of his disappearance, but in the 
pure mountain air the body had suffered no change. 
Big Tom brought his companions to the place, and 
on consultation it was decided to leave the body 
undisturbed till Mitchell’s friends could be present. 


214 ON HORSEBACK 


There was some talk of burying him on the moun- 
tain, but the friends decided otherwise, and the 
remains, with much difficulty, were got down to 
Asheville and there interred. 

Some years afterwards, I believe at the instance of 
a society of scientists, it was resolved to transport the 
body to the summit of Mount Mitchell; for the tragic 
death of the explorer had forever settled in the pop- 
ular mind the name of the mountain. The task was 
not easy. A road had to be cut, over which a sledge 
could be hauled, and the hardy mountaineers who 
undertook the removal were three days in reaching 
the summit with their burden. The remains were 
accompanied by a considerable concourse, and the 
last rites on the top were participated in by a hun- 
dred or more scientists and prominent men from 
different parts of the State. Such a strange cortege 
had never before broken the silence of this lonely 
wilderness, nor was ever burial more impressive 
than this wild interment above the clouds. 

We had been preceded in our climb all the way 
by a huge bear. That he was huge, a lunker, a mon- 
strous old varmint, Big Tom knew by the size of 
his tracks; that he was making the ascent that 
morning ahead of us, Big Tom knew by the fresh- 
ness of the trail. We might come upon him at any 
moment; he might be in the garden; was quite likely 
to be found in the raspberry patch. That we did 
not encounter him I am convinced was not the fault 
of Big Tom, but of the bear. 

After a struggle of five hours we emerged from 
the balsams and briers into a lovely open meadow, 


ON HORSEBACK ars 


of lush clover, timothy, and blue grass. We un- 
saddled the horses and turned them loose to feed in 
it. Ihe meadow sloped up to a belt of balsams and 
firs, a steep rocky knob, and climbing that on foot 
we stood upon the summit of Mitchell at one 
o'clock. We were none too soon, for already the 
clouds were preparing for what appears to be a daily 
storm at this season. 

The summit is a nearly level spot of some thirty 
or forty feet in extent either way, with a floor of 
rock and loose stones. The stunted balsams have 
been cut away so as to give a view. The sweep of 
prospect is vast, and we could see the whole horizon 
except in the direction of Roan, whose long bulk 
was enveloped in cloud. Portions of six States were 
in sight, we were told, but that is merely a geo- 
graphical expression. What we saw, wherever we 
looked, was an inextricable tumble of mountains, 
without order or leading line of direction, — domes, 
peaks, ridges, endless and countless, everywhere, 
some in shadow, some tipped with shafts of sunlight, 
all wooded and green or black, and all in more 
softened contours than our Northern hills, but still 
wild, lonesome, terrible. Away in the southwest, 
lifting themselves up in a gleam of the western sky, 
the Great Smoky Mountains loomed like a frown- 
ing continental fortress, sullen and remote. With 
Clingman and Gibbs and Holdback peaks near at 
hand and apparently of equal height, Mitchell 
seemed only a part and not separate from the mighty 
congregation of giants. 

In the center of the stony plot on the summit lie 


216 ON HORSEBACK 


the remains of Mitchell. To dig a grave in the rock 
was impracticable, but the loose stones were scooped 
away to the depth of a foot or so, the body was 
deposited, and the stones were replaced over it. It 
was the original intention to erect a monument, but 
the enterprise of the projectors of this royal entomb- 
ment failed at that point. The grave is surrounded by 
a low wall of loose stones, to which each visitor adds 
one, and in the course of ages the cairn may grow 
to a good size. The explorer lies there without 
name or headstone to mark his awful resting-place. 
The mountain is his monument. He is alone with 
its majesty. He is there in the clouds, in the tem- 
pests, where the lightnings play, and thunders leap, 
amid the elemental tumult, in the occasional great 
calm and silence and the pale sunlight. It is the 
most majestic, the most lonesome grave on earth. 
As we sat there, awed a little by this presence, 
the clouds were gathering from various quarters and 
drifting towards us. We could watch the process of 
thunder-storms and the manufacture of tempests. I 
have often noticed on other high mountains how the 
clouds, forming like genii released from the earth, 
mount into’ the upper air, and in masses of torn 
fragments of mist hurry across the sky as to a ren- 
dezvous of witches. This was a different display. 
These clouds came slowly sailing from the distant 
horizon, like ships on an aérial voyage. Some were 
below us, some on our level; they were all in 
well-defined, distinct masses, molten silver on deck, 
below trailing rain, and attended on earth by gigan- 
tic shadows that moved with them. This strange 


ON HORSEBACK 217 
fleet of battle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents, 


was maneuvering for an engagement. One after 
another, as they came into range about our peak 
of observation, they opened fire. Sharp flashes of 
lightning darted from one to the other; a jet of 
flame from one leaped across the interval and was 
buried in the bosom of its adversary ; and at every 
discharge the boom of great guns echoed through 
the mountains. It was something more than a royal 
salute to the tomb of the mortal at our feet, for 
the masses of cloud were rent in the fray, at every 
discharge the rain was precipitated in increasing 
torrents, and soon the vast hulks were trailing torn 
fragments and wreaths of mist, like the shot-away 
shrouds and sails of ships in battle. Gradually, 
from this long-range practice with single guns and 
exchange of broadsides, they drifted into closer con- 
flict, rushed together, and we lost sight of the indi- 
vidual combatants in the general tumult of this aérial 
war. 

We had barely twenty minutes for our observa- 
tions, when it was time to go; and had scarcely left 
the peak when the clouds enveloped it. We hastened 
down under the threatening sky to the saddles and 
the luncheon. Just off from the summit, amid the 
rocks, is a complete arbor, or tunnel, of rhododen- 
drons. This cavernous place a Western writer has 
made the scene of a desperate encounter between 
Big Tom and a catamount, or American panther, 
which had been caught in a trap and dragged it there, 
pursued by Wilson. It is an exceedingly graphic 
narrative, and is enlivened by the statement that Big 


218 ON HORSEBACK 


Tom had the night before drunk up all the whisky 
of the party which had spent the night on the sum- 
mit. Now Big Tom assured us that the whisky part 
of the story was an invention; he was not (which is 
true) in the habit of using it; if he ever did take 
any, it might be a drop on Mitchell; in fact, when 
he inquired if we had a flask, he remarked that a 
taste of it would do him good then and there. We 
regretted the lack of it in our baggage. But what 
inclined Big Tom to discredit the Western writer’s 
story altogether was the fact that he never in his life 
had had a difficulty with a catamount, and never had 
seen one in these mountains. 

Our lunch was eaten in haste. Big Tom refused 
the chicken he had provided for us, and strengthened 
himself with slices of raw salt pork, which he cut 
from a hunk with his clasp-knife. We caught and 
saddled our horses, who were reluctant to leave the 
rich feed, enveloped ourselves in waterproofs, and 
got into the stony path for the descent just as the tor- 
rent came down. It did rain. It lightened, the thun- 
der crashed, the wind howled and twisted the treetops. 
It was as if we were pursued by the avenging spirits 
of the mountains for our intrusion. Such a tempest 
on this height had its terrors even for our hardy guide. 
He preferred to be lower down while it was going on. 
The crash and reverberation of the thunder did not 
trouble us so much as the swish of the wet branches 
in our faces and the horrible road, with its mud, trip- 
ping roots, loose stones, and slippery rocks. Pro- 
gress was slow. The horses were in momentary danger 
of breaking their legs. For the first hour there was 


ON HORSEBACK 219 


not much descent. In the clouds we were passing 
over Clingman, Gibbs, and Holdback. The rain had 
ceased, but the mist still shut off all view, if any had 
been attainable, and bushes and paths were deluged. 
The descent was more uncomfortable than the ascent, 
and we were compelled a good deal of the way to lead 
the jaded horses down the slippery rocks. 

From the peak to the Widow Patten’s, where we 
proposed to pass the night, is twelve miles, a dis- 
tance we rode or scrambled down, every step of the 
road bad, in five and a half hours. Halfway down 
we came out upon a cleared place, a farm, with fruit- 
trees and a house in ruins. Here had been a sum- 
mer hotel, much resorted to before the war, but now 
abandoned. Above it we turned aside for the view 
from Elizabeth rock, named from the daughter of 
the proprietor of the hotel, who often sat here, said 
Big Tom, before she went out of this world. It is 
a bold rocky ledge, and the view from it, looking 
south, is unquestionably the finest, the most pleasing 
and picture-like, we found in these mountains. In 
the foreground is the deep gorge of a branch of 
the Swannanoa, and opposite is the great wall of the 
Blue Ridge (the Blue Ridge is the most capricious 
and inexplicable system) making off to the Blacks. 
The depth of the gorge, the sweep of the sky line, 
and the reposeful aspect of the scene to the sunny 
south made this view both grand and charming. 
Nature does not always put the needed dash of 
poetry into her extensive prospects. 

Leaving this clearing and the now neglected 
spring, where fashion used to slake its thirst, we 


220 ON HORSEBACK 


zigzagged down the mountain-side through a forest 
of trees growing at every step larger and nobler, and 
at length struck a small stream, the North Fork of 
the Swannanoa, which led us to the first settlement. 
Just at night, —it was nearly seven o'clock, — we 
entered one of the most stately forests I have ever 
seen, and rode for some distance in an alley of rho- 
dodendrons that arched overhead and made a bower. 
It was like an aisle in a temple; high overhead was 
the somber, leafy roof, supported by gigantic col- 
umns. Few widows have such an avenue of approach 
to their domain as the Widow Patten has. _ 

_ Cheering as this outcome was from the day’s strug- 
gle and storm, the Professor seemed sunk in a pro- 
found sadness. The auguries which the Friend drew 
from these signs of civilization of a charming inn and 
a royal supper did not lighten the melancholy of his 
mind. “ Alas,” he said, — 


«« Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, 
And make me travel forth without my cloak, 
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way, 
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 
’'T’ is not enough that through the cloud thou break, 
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, 
For no man well of such a salve can speak 
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: 
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief: 
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.”’ 


“ Loss of what?” cried the Friend, as he whipped 
up his halting steed. 

“* Loss of self-respect. I feel humiliated that I con- 
sented to climb this mountain.” 


ON HORSEBACK 221 


“ Nonsense! You’ll live to thank me for it, as the 
best thing you ever did. It’s over and done now, 
and you ’ve got it to tell your friends.” 

“That ’s just the trouble. They ll ask me if I 
went up Mitchell, and I shall have to say I did. 
My character for consistency is gone. Not that I 
care much what they think, but my own self-respect 
is gone. I never believed I would do it. A man 
can’t afford to lower himself in his own esteem, at 
my time of life.” 

The Widow Patten’s was only an advanced settle- 
ment in this narrow valley on the mountain-side, but 
a little group of buildings, a fence, and a gate gave it 
the air of a place, and it had once been better cared 
for than it is now. Few travelers pass that way, and 
the art of entertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into 
desuetude. We unsaddled at the veranda, and sat 
down to review our adventure, make the acquaint- 
ance of the family, and hear the last story from Big 
Tom. The mountaineer, though wet, was as fresh 
as a daisy, and fatigue in no wise checked the easy, 
cheerful flow of his talk. He was evidently a favor- 
ite with his neighbors, and not unpleasantly conscious 
of the extent of his reputation. But he encountered 
here another social grade. The Widow Patten was 
highly connected. We were not long in discovering 
that she was an Alexander. She had been a school- 
mate of Senator Vance, — “ Zeb Vance” he still was 
to her,——and the senator and his wife had stayed 
at her house. I wish I could say that the supper, for 
which we waited till nine o’clock, was as “highly con- 
nected”’ as the landlady. It was, however, a supper 


222 ON HORSEBACK 


that left its memory. We were lodged in a detached 
house, which we had to ourselves, where a roaring 
wood fire made amends for other things lacking. It 
was necessary to close the doors to keep out the wan- 
dering cows and pigs, and I am bound to say that, 
notwithstanding the voices of the night, we slept there 
the sleep of peace. 

In the morning a genuine surprise awaited us ; it 
seemed impossible, but the breakfast was many de- 
grees worse than the supper; and when we paid our 
bill, large for the region, we were consoled by the 
thought that we paid for the high connection as well 
as for the accommodations. This is a regular place 
of entertainment, and one is at liberty to ee it 
without violation of delicacy. 

The broken shoe of Jack required attention, and 
we were all the morning hunting a blacksmith, as 
we rode down the valley. Three blacksmith’s shan- 
ties were found, and after long waiting to send for 
the operator it turned out in each case that he had 
no shoes, no nails, no iron to make either of. We 
made a detour of three miles to what was represented 
as a regular shop. The owner had secured the ser- 
vice of a colored blacksmith for a special job, and 
was not inclined to accommodate us; he had no 
shoes, no nails. But the colored blacksmith, who 
appreciated the plight we were in, offered to make a 
shoe, and to crib four nails from those he had laid 
aside for a couple of mules; and after a good deal 
of delay, we were enabled to go on. The incident 
shows, as well as anything, the barrenness and shift- 
lessness of the region. A horseman with whom we 


ON HORSEBACK 223 


rode in the morning gave us a very low estimate of 
the trustworthiness of the inhabitants. The valley is 
wild and very pretty all the way down to Colonel 
Long’s,— twelve miles, — but the wretched-looking 
people along the way live in a wretched manner. 
Just before reaching Colonel Long’s we forded the 
stream (here of good size), the bridge having tumbled 
down, and encountered a party of picnickers under 
the trees — signs of civilization; a railway station is 
not far off. Colonel Long’s is a typical Southern 
establishment: a white house, or rather three houses, 
all of one story, built on to each other as beehives 
are set in arow, all porches and galleries. No one at 
home but the cook, a rotund, broad-faced woman, 
with a merry eye, whose very appearance suggested 
good cooking and hospitality ; the Missis and the 
children had gone up to the river fishing; the 
Colonel was somewhere about the place ; always was 
away when he was wanted. Guess he’d take us in, — 
mighty fine man the Colonel; and she dispatched a 
child from a cabin in the rear to hunt him up. The 
Colonel was a great friend of her folks down to 
Greenville; they visited here. Law, no, she didn’t 
live here. Was just up here spending the summer, 
for her health. God-forsaken lot of people up here, 
poor trash. She would n’t stay here a day, but the 
Colonel was a friend of her folks, the firstest folks in 
Greenville. Nobody round here she could ’sociate 
with. She was a Presbyterian, the folks round here 
mostly Baptists and Methodists. More style about 
the Presbyterians. Married? No, she hoped not. 
She did n’t want to support no husband. Got ’nuff 


224 ON HORSEBACK 


to do to take care of herself. That her little girl? 
No; she’d only got one child, down to Greenville, 
just the prettiest boy ever was, as white as anybody. 
How did she what? reconcile this state of things 
with not being married and being a Presbyterian? 
Sho! she liked to carry some religion along; it was 
mighty handy occasionally, mebbe not all the time. 
Yes, indeed, she enjoyed her religion. 

The Colonel appeared and gave us a most cordial 
welcome. The fat and merry cook blustered around 
and prepared a good dinner, memorable for its 
“light”? bread, the first we had seen since Cran- 
berry Forge. The Colonel is in some sense a public 
man, having been a mail agent, and a Republican. 
He showed us photographs and engravings of North- 
ern politicians, and had the air of a man who had 
been in Washington. This was a fine country for 
any kind of fruit, — apples, grapes, pears; it needed 
a little Northern enterprise to set things going. The 
travelers were indebted to the Colonel for a delight- 
ful noonday rest, and with regret declined his press- 
ing invitation to pass the night with him. 


The ride down the Swannanoa to Asheville was ° 


pleasant, through a cultivated region, over a good 
road. The Swannanoa is, however, a turbid stream. 
In order to obtain the most impressive view of Ashe- 
ville we approached it by the way of Beaucatcher 
Hill, a sharp elevation a mile west of the town. I 
suppose the name is a corruption of some descriptive 
French word, but it has long been a favorite resort 
of the frequenters of Asheville, and it may be tradi- 
tional that it is a good place to catch beaux. The 


ON HORSEBACK 225 


summit 1s occupied by a handsome private residence, 
and from this ridge the view, which has the merit of 
‘bursting’ upon the traveler as he comes over the 
hill, is captivating in its extent and variety. The 
pretty town of Asheville is seen to cover a number 
of elevations gently rising out of the valley, and the 
valley, a rich agricultural region, well watered and 
fruitful, is completely inclosed by picturesque hills, 
some of them rising to the dignity of mountains. 
The most conspicuous of these is Mount Pisgah, 
eighteen miles distant to the southwest, a pyramid 
of the Balsam range, 5757 feet high. Mount Pisgah, 
from its shape, is the most attractive mountain in 
this region. 

The sunset light was falling upon the splendid 
panorama and softening it. The windows of the 
town gleamed as if on fire. From the steep slope 
below came the mingled sounds of children shout- 
ing, cattle driven home, and all that hum of life that 
marks a thickly peopled region preparing for the 
night. It was the leisure hour of an August after- 
noon, and Asheville was in all its watering-place 
gayety, as we reined up at the Swannanoa hotel. A 
band was playing on the balcony. We had reached 
ice-water, barbers, waiters, civilization. 

15 


IV 


SHEVILLE, delightful for situation, on 
small hills that rise above the French Broad 
below its confluence with the Swannanoa, is 
a sort of fourteenth cousin to Saratoga. It has no 
springs, but lying 2250 feet above the sea and ina 
lovely valley, mountain girt, it has pure atmosphere 
and an equable climate; and being both a summer 
and winter resort, it has acquired a watering-place 
air. There are Southerners who declare that it is too 
hot in summer, and that the complete .circuit of 
mountains shuts out any lively movement of air. 
But the scenery is so charming and noble, the drives 
are so varied, the roads so unusually passable for a 
Southern country, and the facilities for excursions so 
good, that Asheville is a favorite resort. 
Architecturally the place is not remarkable, but its 
surface is so irregular, there are so many acclivities 
and deep valleys that improvements can never oblit- 
erate, that it is perforce picturesque. It is interesting 
also, if not pleasing, in its contrasts— the enter- 
prise of taste and money-making struggling with the 
laissez faire of the South. The negro, I suppose, 
must be regarded as a conservative element; he has 
not much inclination to change his clothes or his 
cabin, and his swarming presence gives a ragged as- 
pect to the new civilization. And to say the truth, 
the new element of Southern smartness lacks the 


ON HORSEBACK 227 


trim thrift the North is familiar with; though the 
visitor who needs relaxation is not disposed to quar- 
rel with the easy-going terms on which life is taken. 

Asheville, it is needless to say, appeared very gay 
and stimulating to the riders from the wilderness. 
The Professor, who does not even pretend to patron- 
ize Nature, had his revenge as we strolled about 
the streets (there is but one of much consideration), 
immensely entertained by the picturesque contrasts. 
There was more life and amusement here in five 
minutes, he declared, than in five days of what people 
called scenery — the present rage for scenery, anyway, 
being only a fashion and a modern invention. The 
Friend suspected from this penchant for the city 
that the Professor must have been brought up in 
the country. 

There was a kind of predetermined and willful 
gayety about Asheville, however, that is apt to be 
present in a watering-place, and gave to it the melan- 
choly tone that is always present in gay places. We 
fancied that the lively movement in the streets had an 
air of unreality. A band of musicians on the balcony 
of the Swannanoa were scraping and tooting and 
twanging with a hired air, and on the opposite bal- 
cony of the Eagle a rival band echoed and redoubled 
the perfunctory joyousness. The gayety was conta- 
gious: the horses felt it; those that carried light bur- 
dens of beauty minced and pranced, the pony in the 
dog-cart was inclined to dash, the few passing equi- 
pages had an air of pleasure ; and the people of color, 
the comely waitress and the slouching corner-loafer, 
responded to the animation of the festive strains. In 


228 ON HORSEBACK 


the late afternoon the streets were full of people, 
wagons, carriages, horsemen, all with a holiday air, 
dashed with African color and humor—the irrespon- 
sibility of the most insouciant and humorous race in 
the world, perhaps more comical than humorous; a 
mixture of recent civilization and rudeness, peculiar 
and amusing; a happy coming together, it seemed, 
of Southern abandon and Northern wealth, though 
the North was little represented at this season. 

As evening came on, the streets, though wanting 
gas, were still more animated; the shops were open, 
some very good ones, and the white and black 
throng 1 increasing, especially the black, for the negro 
is preéminently a night bird. In the hotels dancing 
was promised — the german was announced; on the 
galleries and in the corridors were groups of young 
people, a little loud in manner and voice, — the 
young gentleman, with his over-elaborate manner to 
ladies in bowing and hat-lifting, and the blooming 
girls from the lesser Southern cities, with the slight 
provincial note, and yet with the frank and engaging 
cordiality which is as charming as it is characteristic. 
I do not know what led the Professor to query if 
the Southern young women were not superior to the 
Southern young men, but he is always asking ques- 
tions nobody can answer. At the Swannanoa were 
half a dozen bridal couples, readily recognizable by 
the perfect air they had of having been married a long 
time. How interesting such young voyagers are, and 
how interesting they are to each other! Columbus 
never discovered such a large world as they have to 
find out and possess each in the other. 


ON HORSEBACK 229 


Among the attractions of the evening it was diffi- 
cult to choose. There was a lawn-party advertised at 
Battery Point (wherea fine hotel has since been built) 
and we walked up to that round knob after dark. 
It is a hill with a grove, which commands a charming 
view, and was fortified during the war. We found 
it illuminated with Chinese lanterns; and little tables 
set about under the trees, laden with cake and ice- 
cream, offered a chance to the stranger to contribute 
money for the benefit of the Presbyterian Church. 
I am afraid it was not a profitable entertainment, for 
the men seemed to have business elsewhere, but the 
ladies about the tables made charming groups in the 
lighted grove. Man is a stupid animal at best, or he 
would not make it so difficult for the womenkind to 
scrape together a little money for charitable purposes. 
But probably the women like this method of raising 
money better than the direct one. 

The evening gayety of the town was well dis- 
tributed. When we descended to the Court-House 
Square, a great crowd had collected, black, white, 
and yellow, about a high platform, upon which four 
glaring torches lighted up the novel scene, and those 
who could read might decipher this legend on a 
standard at the back of the stage: 


HAPPY JOHN. 
ONE OF THE SLAVES OF WADE HAMPTON. 
COME AND SEE HIM! 


Happy John, who occupied the platform with 
Mary, a “ bright” yellow girl, took the comical view 


230 ON HORSEBACK 


of his race, which was greatly enjoyed by his audi- 
ence. His face was blackened to the proper color of 
the stage-darky, and he wore a flaming suit of calico, 
the trousers and coat striped longitudinally according 
to Punch’s idea of “ Uncle Sam,” the coat a swal- 
low-tail bound and faced with scarlet, and a bell- 
crowned white hat. This conceit of a colored Yankee 
seemed to tickle all colors in the audience amazingly. 
Mary, the “bright” woman (this is the universal 
designation of the light mulatto), was a pleasing but 
bold yellow girl, who wore a natty cap trimmed with 
scarlet, and had the assured or pert manner of all 
traveling sawdust performers. 

“‘ Oh, yes,” exclaimed a bright woman in the crowd, 
“* Happy John was sure enough one of Wade Hamp- 
ton’s slaves, and he’s right good looking when he’s 
not blackened up.” 

Happy John sustained the promise of his name 
by spontaneous gayety and enjoyment of the fleeting 
moment; he had a glib tongue and a ready, rude wit, 
and talked to his audience with a delicious mingling 
of impudence, deference, and patronage, commenting 
upon them generally, administering advice and cor- — 
rection in a strain of humor that kept his hearers in 
a pleased excitement. He handled the banjo and the 
guitar alternately, and talked all the time when he 
was not singing. Mary (how much harder featured 
and brazen a woman is in such a position than a man 
of the same caliber!) sang, in an untutored treble, 
songs of sentiment, often risgué, in solo and in com- 
pany with John, but with a cold, indifferent air, in 
contrast to the rollicking enjoyment of her comrade. 


ON HORSEBACK 231 


The favorite song, which the crowd compelled her 
to repeat, touched lightly the uncertainties of love, 
expressed in the falsetto pathetic refrain: 


«« Mary ’s gone away wid de coon.”’ 


All this, with the moon, the soft summer night, the 
mixed crowd of darkies and whites, the stump elo- 
quence of Happy John, the singing, the laughter, the 
flaring torches, made a wild scene. The entertain- 
ment was quite free, with a “ collection ” occasionally 
during the performance. 

What most impressed us, however, was the turn- 
ing to account by Happy John of the “nigger” side 
of the black man as a means of low comedy, and the 
enjoyment of it by all the people of color. They 
appeared to appreciate as highly as anybody the 
comic element in themselves, and Happy John had 
emphasized it by deepening his natural color and 
exaggerating the “nigger” peculiarities. I presume 
none of them analyzed the nature of his infectious 
gayety, nor thought of the pathos that lay so close 
to it, in the fact of his recent slavery, and the distinc- 
tion of being one of Wade Hampton’s niggers, and 
the melancholy mirth of this light-hearted race’s bur- 
lesque of itself. 

A performance followed which called forth the ap- 
preciation of the crowd more than the wit of Happy 
John or the faded songs of the yellow girl. John 
took two sweet-cakes and broke each in fine pieces 
into a saucer, and after sugaring and eulogizing the 
dry messes, called for two small darky volunteers 
from the audience to come up on the platform and 


t 


232 ON HORSEBACK 


devour them. He offered a prize of fifteen cents to 
the one who should first eat the contents of his dish, 
not using his hands, and hold up the saucer empty 
in token of his victory. The cake was tempting, and 
the fifteen cents irresistible, and a couple of boys 
in ragged shirts and short trousers and a suspender 
apiece came up shamefacedly to enter for the prize. 
Fach one grasped his saucer in both hands, and with 
face over the dish awaited the word “go,” which John 
gave, and started off the contest with a banjo accom- 
paniment. To pick up with the mouth the dry cake 
and choke it down was not so easy as the boys ap- 
prehended, but they went into the task with all their 
might, gobbling and swallowing as if they loved cake, , 
occasionally rolling an eye to the saucer of the con- 
testant to see the relative progress, John strumming, 
ironically encouraging, and the crowd roaring. As the 
combat deepened and the contestants strangled and 
stuffed and sputtered, the crowd went into spasms of 
laughter. The smallest boy won by a few seconds, 
holding up his empty saucer, with mouth stuffed, 
vigorously trying to swallow, like a chicken with his _ 
throat clogged with dry meal, and utterly unable to 
speak. The impartial John praised the victor in 
mock heroics, but said that the trial was so even that 
he would divide the prize, ten cents to one and five 
to the other—a stroke of justice that greatly in- 
creased his popularity. And then he dismissed the 
assembly, saying that he had promised the mayor to 
do so early, because he did not wish to run an oppo- 
sition to the political meeting going on in the court- 
house. 


ON HORSEBACK 233 


The scene in the large court-room was less ani- 
mated than that out-doors; a half-dozen tallow dips, 
hung on the wall in sconces and stuck on the judge’s 
long desk, feebly illuminated the mixed crowd of 
black and white who sat in, and on the backs of, the 
benches, and cast only a fitful light upon the orator, 
who paced back and forth and pounded the rail. It 
was to have been a joint discussion between the two 
presidential electors running in that district, but, the 
Republican being absent, his place was taken by a 
young man of the town. The Democratic orator took 
advantage of the absence of his opponent to describe 
the discussion of the night before, and to give a por- 
trait of his adversary. He was represented as a cross 
between a baboon and a jackass, who would be a 
natural curiosity for Barnum. “I intend,” said the 
orator, “to put him in a cage and exhibit him about 
the deestrict.” This political hit called forth great 
applause. All his arguments were of this pointed 
character, and they appeared to be unanswerable. 
The orator appeared to prove that there wasn’t a 
respectable man in the opposite party who was n’t 
an office-holder, nor a white man of any kind in it 
who was not an office-holder. If there were any 
issues or principles in the canvass, he paid his audi- 
ence the compliment of knowing all about them, for 
he never alluded to any. In another state of society, 
such a speech of personalities might have led to sub- 
‘sequent shootings, but no doubt his adversary would 
pay him in the same coin when next they met, and 
the exhibition seemed to be regarded down here as 
satisfactory and enlightened political canvassing for 


234 ON HORSEBACK 


votes. The speaker who replied, opened his address 
with a noble tribute to woman (as the first speaker 
had ended his), directed to a dozen of that sex who 
sat in the gloom of a corner. The young man was 
moderate in his sarcasm, and attempted to speak of 
national issues, but the crowd had small relish for 
that sort of thing. At eleven o’clock, when we got 
away from the unsavory room (more than half the 
candles had gone out), the orator was making slow 
headway against the relished blackguardism of the 
evening. The german was still “on” at the hotel 
when we ascended to our chamber, satisfied that 
Asheville was a lively town. 

The sojourner at Asheville can amuse himself 
very well by walking or driving to the. many pic- 
turesque points of view about the town; livery 
stables abound, and the roads are good. The Beau- 
catcher Hill is always attractive; and Connolly’s, a 
private place a couple of miles from town, is ideally 
situated, being on a slight elevation in the valley, 
commanding the entire circuit of mountains, for it 
has the air of repose which is so seldom experienced 
in the location of a dwelling in America whence an ’ 
extensive prospect is given. Or if the visitor is dis- 
inclined to exertion, he may lounge in the rooms of 
the hospitable Asheville Club; or he may sit on the 
sidewalk in front of the hotels, and talk with the 
colonels and judges and generals and ex-members 
of Congress, the talk generally drifting to the new 
commercial and industrial life of the South, and only 
to politics as it affects these; and he will be pleased, 
if the conversation takes a reminiscent turn, with 


ON HORSEBACK Laie 


the lack of bitterness and the tone of friendliness. 
The negro problem is commonly discussed philoso- 
phically and without heat, but there is always discov- 
ered, underneath, the determination that the negro 
shall never again get the legislative upper hand. And 
the gentleman from South Carolina who has an 
upland farm, and is heartily glad slavery is gone, and 
wants the negro educated, when it comes to ascend- 
ency in politics — such as the State once experienced 
— asks you what you would do yourself. This is not 
the place to enter upon the politico-social question, 
but the writer may note one impression gathered 
from much friendly and agreeable conversation. It 
is that the Southern whites misapprehend and make 
a scarecrow of “social equality.” When, during the 
war, it was a question at the North of giving the col- 
ored people of the Northern States the ballot, the 
argument against it used to be stated in the form of 
a question: “ Do you want your daughter to marry 
a negro?” Well, the negro has his political rights 
in the North, and there has come no change in the 
social conditions whatever. And there is no doubt 
that the social conditions would remain exactly as they 
are at the South if the negro enjoyed all the civil rights 
which the Constitution tries to give him. The most 
sensible view of this whole question was taken by an 
intelligent colored man, whose brother was formerly 
a representative in Congress. “Social equality,” he 
said in effect, “is a humbug. We do not expect it, 
we do not want it. It does not exist among the 
blacks themselves. We have our own social degrees, 
and choose our own associates. We simply want the 


236 ON HORSEBACK 


ordinary civil rights, under which we can live and 
make our way in peace and amity. This is necessary 
to our self-respect, and if we have not self-respect, it 
is not to be supposed that the race canimprove. I'll 
tell you what I mean. My wife is a modest, intelli- 
gent woman, of good manners, and she is always neat, 
and tastefully dressed. Now, if she goes to take the 
cars, she is not permitted to go into a clean car with 
decent people, but is ordered into one that is repel- 
lent, and is forced into company that any refined 
woman would shrink from. But along comes a flaunt- 
ingly dressed woman, of known disreputable charac- 
ter, whom my wife would be disgraced to know, and 
she takes any place that money will buy. It is this 
sort of thing that hurts.” 

We took the eastern train one evening to Round 
Nob (Henry’s Station), some thirty miles, in order 
to see the wonderful railway that descends, a distance 
of eight miles, from the summit of Swannanoa Gap 
(2657 feet elevation) to Round Nob Hotel (1607 
feet).. The Swannanoa Summit is the dividing line 
between the waters that flow to the Atlantic and those 
that go to the Gulf of Mexico. This fact was im- — 
pressed upon us by the inhabitants, who derive a 
good deal of comfort from it. Such divides are always 
matter of local pride. Unfortunately, perhaps, it was 
too dark before we reached Henry’s to enable us to 
see the road in all its loops and parallels as it appears 
on the map, but we gained a better effect. The hotel, 
when we first sighted it, all its windows blazing with 
light, was at the bottom of a well. Beside it—it 
was sufficiently light to see that—a column of water 


ON HORSEBACK 237 


sprang straight into the air to the height, as we learned 
afterwards from two official sources, of 225 and 265 
feet; and the information was added that it is the 
highest fountain in the world. This stout column, 
stiff as a flagstaff, with its feathery head of mist gleam- 
ing like silver in the failing light, had the most charm- 
ing effect. We passed out of sight of hotel and 
fountain, but were conscious of being whirled on a 
circular descending grade, and very soon they were in 
sight again. Again and again they disappeared and 
came to view, now on one side and now onthe other, 
until our train seemed to be bewitched, making frantic 
efforts by dodgings and turnings, now through tun- 
nels and now over high pieces of trestle, to escape the 
inevitable attraction that was gravitating it down 
to the hospitable lights at the bottom of the well. 
When we climbed back up the road in the morning, 
we had an opportunity to see the marvelous engi- 
neering, but there is little else to see, the view being 
nearly always very limited. 

The hotel at the bottom of the ravine, on the side 
of Round Nob, offers little in the way of prospect, 
but it is a picturesque place, and we could understand 
why it was full of visitors when we came to the table. 
It was probably the best-kept house of entertain- 
ment in the State, and being in the midst of the Black 
Hills, it offers good chances for fishing and mountain 
climbing. 

In the morning the fountain, which is, of course, 
artificial, refused to play, the rain in the night having 
washed in dééris which clogged the conduit. But it 
soon freed itself and sent up for a long time, like a 


238 ON HORSEBACK 


sulky geyser, mud and foul water. When it got free- 
dom and tolerable clearness, we noted that the water 
went up in pulsations, which were marked at short 
distances by the water falling off, giving the column 
the appearance ofaspine. The summit, always beat- 
ing the air in efforts to rise higher, fell over in a veil 
of mist. 

There are certain excursions that the sojourner at 
Asheville must make. He must ride forty-five miles 
south through Henderson and Transylvania to Ce- 
sar’s Head, on the South Carolina border, where the 
mountain system abruptly breaks down into the vast 
southern plain; where the observer, standing on 
the edge of the precipice, has behind him and before 
him the greatest contrast that nature can.offer. He 
must also take the rail to Waynesville, and visit the 
much-frequented White Sulphur Springs, among 
the Balsam Mountains, and penetrate the Great 
Smoky range by way of Quallatown, and make the 
acquaintance of the remnant of Cherokee Indians liv- 
ing on the north slope of Cheoah Mountain. The 
Professor could have made it a matter of personal 
merit that he escaped all these encounters with wild — 
and picturesque nature, if his horse had not been too 
disabled for such long jaunts. It is only necessary, 
however, to explain to the public that the travelers 
are not gormandizers of scenery, and were willing to 
leave some portions of the State to the curiosity of 
future excursionists. 

But so much was said about Hickory Nut Gap 
that a visit to it could not be evaded. The Gap is 
about twenty-four miles southeast of Asheville. In 


ON HORSEBACK 239 


the opinion of a well-informed colonel, who urged us 
to make the trip, it is the finest piece of scenery in 
this region. We were brought up on the precept, 
“get the best,” and it was with high anticipations 
that we set out about eleven o’clock one warm, foggy 
morning. We followed a very good road through a 
broken, pleasant country, gradually growing wilder 
and less cultivated. There was heavy rain most of 
the day on the hills, and occasionally a shower swept 
across our path. The conspicuous object toward 
which we traveled all the morning was a shapely 
conical hill at the beginning of the Gap. 

At three o’clock we stopped at the Widow Sher- 
rill’s for dinner. Her house, only about a mile from 
the summit, is most picturesquely situated on a rough 
slope, giving a wide valley and mountain view. The 
house is old, rambling, many-roomed, with wide gal- 
leries on two sides. If one wanted a retired retreat 
for a few days, with good air and fair entertainment, 
this could be commended. It is an excellent fruit 
region; apples especially are sound and of good 
flavor. That may be said of all this part of the State. 
The climate is adapted to apples, as the hilly part of 
New England is. I fancy the fruit ripens slowly, as 
it does in New England, and is not subject to quick 
decay like much of that grown in the West. But the 
grape also can be grown in all this mountain region. 
Nothing but lack of enterprise prevents any farmer 
from enjoying abundance of fruit. The industry car- 
ried on at the moment at the Widow Sherrill’s was 
the artificial drying of apples for the market. The 
apples are pared, cored, and sliced in spirals, by 


240 ON HORSEBACK 


machinery, and dried on tin sheets in a patented — 
machine. The industry appears to be a profitable 
one hereabouts, and is about the only one that calls 
in the aid of invention. 

While our dinner was preparing, we studied the 
well-known pictures of “Jane” and “ Eliza,” the 
photographs of Confederate boys, who had never 
returned from the war, and the relations, whom the 
traveling photographers always like to pillory in mel- 
ancholy couples, and some stray volumes of the Sun- 
day-school Union. Madame Sherrill, who carries on 
the farm since the death of her husband, is a woman 
of strong and liberal mind, who informed us that she 
got small comfort in the churches in the neighbor- 
hood, and gave us, in fact, a discouraging account of 
the unvital piety of the region. 

The descent from the summit of the Gap to Judge 
Logan’s, nine miles, is rapid, and the road is wild and 
occasionally picturesque, following the Broad River, 
a small stream when we first overtook it, but roaring, 
rocky, and muddy, owing to frequent rains, and now 
and then tumbling down in rapids.. The noisy stream 
made the ride animated, and an occasional cabin, a * 
poor farmhouse, a mill, a schoolhouse, a store with an 
assemblage of lean horses tied to the hitching rails, 
gave the Professor opportunity for remarks upon the 
value of life under such circumstances. 

The valley which we followed down probably owes 
its celebrity to the uncommon phenomena of occa- 
sional naked rocks and precipices. The inclosing 
mountains are from 3000 to 4000 feet high, and gen- 
erally wooded. I do not think that the ravine would 


ON HORSEBACK 241 


be famous in a country where exposed ledges and 
buttressing walls of rock are common. It is only by 
comparison with the local scenery that this is remark- 
able. About a mile above Judge Logan’s we caught 
sight, through the trees, of the famous waterfall. 
From the top of the high ridge on the right, a nearly 
perpendicular cascade pours over the ledge of rocks 
and is lost in the forest. We could see nearly the 
whole of it, at a great height above us, on the oppo- 
site side of the river, and it would require an hour’s 
stiff climb to reach its foot. From where we viewed 
it, it seemed a slender and not very important, but 
certainly a very beautiful cascade, a band of silver in 
the mass of green foliage. The fall is said to be 1400 
feet. Our colonel insists that it is a thousand. It 
may be, but the valley where we stood is at least at 
an elevation of 1300 feet; we could not believe that 
the ridge over which the water pours is much higher 
than 3000 feet, and the length of the fall certainly 
did not appear to be a quarter of the height of the 
mountain from our point of observation. But we had 
no desire to belittle this pretty cascade, especially 
when we found that Judge Logan would regard a 
foot abated from the 1400 as a personal grievance. 
Mr. Logan once performed the functions of local 
judge,a Republican appointment, and he sits around 
the premises now in the enjoyment of that past dig- 
nity and of the fact that his wife is postmistress. His 
house of entertainment is at the bottom of the valley, 
a place shut in, warm, damp, and not inviting to a 
long stay, although the region boasts a good many 
natural curiosities. 
16 


249 ON HORSEBACK 


It was here that we encountered again the political 
current, out of which we had been fora month. The 
Judge himself was reticent, as became a public man, 
but he had conspicuously posted up a monster pro- 
spectus, sent out from Augusta, of a campaign life of 
Blaine and Logan, in which the Professor read, with 
shaking knees, this sentence: “ Sure to be the greatest 
and hottest [campaign and civil battle] ever known 
in this world. The thunder of the supreme struggle 
and its reverberations will shake the continents for 
months, and will be felt from Pole to Pole.” 

For this and other reasons this seemed a risky 
place to be in. There was something: sinister about 
the murky atmosphere, and a suspicion of mosqui- 
toes besides. Had there not been other travelers 
staying here, we should have felt still more uneasy. 
The house faced Bald Mountain, 4000 feet high, a 
hill that had a very bad reputation some years ago, 
and was visited by newspaper reporters. This is, in 
fact, the famous Shaking Mountain. For a long 
time it had a habit of trembling, as ifin an earthquake 
spasm, but with a shivering motion very different 


from that produced by an earthquake. The only ~ 


good that came of it was that it frightened all the 
“moonshiners,” and caused them to join the church. 
It is not reported what became of the church after- 
wards. It is believed now that the trembling was 
caused by the cracking of a great ledge on the moun- 
tain, which slowly parted asunder. Bald Mountain 
is the scene of Mrs. Burnett’s delightful story of 
“Touisiana,” and of the play of “ Esmeralda.” A rock 
is pointed out toward the summit, which the beholder 


ON HORSEBACK 243 


is asked to see resembles a hut, and which 1s called 
** Hsmeralda’s Cottage.” But this attractive maiden 
_has departed, and we did not discover any woman 
in the region who remotely answers to her descrip- 
tion. 

In the morning we rode a mile and a half through 
the woods and followed up a small stream to see the 
celebrated pools, one of which the Judge said was two 
hundred feet deep, and another bottomless. These 
pools, not round, but on one side circular excava- 
tions, some twenty feet across, worn in the rock by 
pebbles, are very good specimens, and perhaps re- 
markable specimens, of “‘pot-holes.”’ They are, how- 
ever, regarded here as one of the wonders of the world. 
On the way to them we saw beautiful wild trumpet- 
creepers in blossom, festooning the trees. 

The stream that originates in Hickory Nut Gap is 
the westernmost branch of several forks of the Broad, 
which unite to the southeast in Rutherford County, 
flow to Columbia, and reach the Atlantic through the 
channel of the Santee. It is not to be confounded 
with the French Broad, which originates among the 
hills of Transylvania, runs northward past Ashe- 
ville, and finds its way to the Tennessee through 
the Warm Springs Gap in the Bald Mountains. As 
the French claimed ownership of all the affluents 
of the Mississippi, this latter was called the French 
Broad. 

It was a great relief the next morning, on our 
return, to rise out of the lifeless atmosphere of the 
Gap into the invigorating air at the Widow Sher- 
rill’s, whose country-seat is three hundred feet higher 


244 ON HORSEBACK 


than Asheville. It was a day of heavy showers, and 
apparently of leisure to the scattered population ; at 
every store and mill was a congregation of loafers, 
who had hitched their scrawny horses and mules to 
the fences, and had the professional air of the idler 
and gossip the world over. The vehicles met on the 
road were a variety of the prairie schooner, long wagons 
with a top of hoops over which is stretched a cotton 
cloth. The wagons are without seats, and the canvas 
is too low to admit of sitting upright, if there were. 
The occupants crawl in at either end, sit or lie on the 
bottom of the wagon, and jolt along in shiftless un- 
comfortableness. 

Riding down the French Broad was one of the ori- 
ginal objects of our journey. Travelers with the same 
intention may be warned that the route on horseback 
is impracticable. The distance to the Warm Springs 
is thirty-seven miles; to Marshall, more than half- 
way, the road is clear, as it runs on the opposite side 
of the river from the railway, and the valley is some- 
thing more than river and rails. But below Marshall 
the valley contracts, and the rails are laid a good por- 
tion of the way in the old stage road. One can walk ~ 
the track, but to ride a horse over its sleepers and 
culverts and occasional bridges, and dodge the trains, 
is neither safe nor agreeable. We sent our horses 
round, —the messenger taking the risk of leading 
them, between trains, over the last six or eight miles, 
—and took the train. 

The railway, after crossing a mile or two of mead- 
ows, hugs the river all the way. The scenery is the 
reverse of bold. The hills are low, monotonous in 


ON HORSEBACK 245 


form, and the stream winds through them, with many 
a pretty turn and “reach,” with scarcely a ribbon of 
room to spare on either side. The river is shallow, 
rapid, stony, muddy, full of rocks, with an occasional 
little island covered with low bushes. The rock 
seems to be a clay formation, rotten and colored. As 
we approach Warm Springs the scenery becomes a 
little bolder, and we emerge into the open space about 
the Springs through a narrower defile, guarded by 
rocks that are really picturesque in color and splin- 
tered decay, one of them being known, of course, as 
the “ Lover’s Leap,” a name common in every part 
of the modern or ancient world where there is a settle- 
ment near a precipice, with always the same legend 
attached to it. 

There is a little village at Warm Springs, but 
the hotel — since burned and rebuilt — (which may 
be briefly described as a palatial shanty) stands by 
itself close to the river, which is here a deep, rapid, 
turbid stream. A bridge once connected it with the 
road on the opposite bank, but it was carried away 
three or four years ago, and its ragged butments 
stand as a monument of procrastination, while the 
stream is crossed by means of a flatboat and a cable. 
In front of the hotel, on the slight slope to the river, 
is a meager grove of locusts. The famous spring, 
close to the stream, is marked only by a rough box 
of wood and an iron pipe, and the water, which has a 
temperature of about one hundred degrees, runs to 
a shabby bath-house below, in which is a pool for 
bathing. The bath is very agreeable, the tepid water 
being singularly soft and pleasant. It has a slightly 


246 ON HORSEBACK 


sulphurous taste. Its good effects are much certified. 
The grounds, which might be very pretty with care, 
are ill-kept and slatternly, strewn with dédrts, as if 
everything was left to the easy-going nature of the 
servants. The main house its of brick, with verandas 
and galleries all round, and a colonnade of thirteen 
huge brick and stucco columns, in honor of the thir- 
teen States, —a relic of post-Revolutionary times, 
when the house was the resort of Southern fashion 
and romance. These columns have stood through 
one fire, and perhaps the recent one, which swept 
away the rest of the structure. The house is extended 
in a long wooden edifice, with galleries and outside 
stairs, the whole front being nearly seven hundred 
feet long. In a rear building is a vast, barrack-like 
dining-room, with a noble ball-room above, for dan- 
cing is the important occupation of visitors. 

The situation is very pretty, and the establish- 
ment has a picturesqueness of its own. Even the 
ugly little brick structure near the bath-house im- 
poses upon one as Wade Hampton’s cottage. No 
doubt we liked the place better than if it had been | 
smart, and enjoyed the wegligé condition, and the 
easy terms on which life is taken there. There was 
a sense of abundance in the sight of fowls tiptoeing 
about the verandas, and to meet a chicken in the 
parlor was a sort of guarantee that we should meet 
him later on in the dining-room. There was nothing 
incongruous in the presence of pigs, turkeys, and 
_ chickens on the grounds; they went along with the 
good-natured negro-service and the general hospi- 
tality; and we had a mental rest in the thought 


ON HORSEBACK 247 


that all the gates would have been off the hinges, if 
there had been any gates. The guests were very 
well treated indeed, and were put under no sort of 
restraint by discipline. The long colonnade made 
an admirable promenade and lounging-place and 
point of observation. It was interesting to watch 
the groups under the locusts, to see the management 
of the ferry, the mounting and dismounting of the 
riding-parties, and to study the colors on the steep 
hill opposite, halfway up which was a neat cottage 
and flower-garden. The type of people was very 
pleasantly Southern. Colonels and politicians stand 
in groups and tell stories, which are followed by 
explosions of laughter; retire occasionally into the 
saloon, and come forth reminded of more stories, 
and all lift their hats elaborately and suspend the 
narratives when a lady goes past. A company of 
soldiers from Richmond had pitched its tents near 
the hotel, and in the evening the ball-room was en- 
livened with uniforms. Among the graceful dancers 
—and every one danced well, and with spirit — 
was pointed out the young widow of a son of An- 
drew Johnson, whose pretty cottage overlooks the 
village. But the Professor, to whom this informa- 
tion was communicated, doubted whether here it 
was not a greater distinction to be the daughter of 
the owner of this region than to be connected with 
a President of the United States. 

A certain air of romance and tradition hangs about 
the French Broad and the Warm Springs, which the 
visitor must possess himself of in order to appre- 
ciate either. This was the great highway of trade 


248 ON HORSEBACK 


and travel. At certain seasons there was an almost 
continuous procession of herds of cattle and sheep 
passing to the Eastern markets, and of trains of big 
wagons wending their way to the inviting lands 
watered by the Tennessee. Here came in the sum- 
mer-time the Southern planters in coach and four, 
with a great retinue of household servants, and kept 
up for months that unique social life, a mixture of 
courtly ceremony and entire freedom, —the civili- 
zation which had the drawing-room at one end and 
the negro-quarters at the other, — which has passed 
away. It was a continuation into our own restless 
era of the manners and the literature of George the 
Third, with the accompanying humor and happy- 
go-lucky decadence of the negro slaves. On our 
way down we saw on the river-bank, under the trees, 
the old hostelry, Alexander’s, still in decay, —an 
attractive tavern, that was formerly one of the nota- 
ble stopping-places on the river. Master, and fine 
lady, and obsequious, larking darky, and lumbering 
coach, and throng of pompous and gay life, have all 
disappeared. There was no room in this valley for 
the old institutions and for the iron track. 
«« When in the chronicle of wasted time 

I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 

In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, . . . 


We, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.’” 


This perverted use of noble verse was all the response 
the Friend got in his attempt to drop into the senti- 
mental vein over the past of the French Broad. 


ON HORSEBACK 249 


The reader must not think there is no enterprise 
in this sedative and idle resort. The conceited Yan- 
kee has to learn that it is not he alone who can be 
accused of the thrift of craft. There is at the Warm 
Springs a thriving mill for crushing and pulveriz- 
ing barites, known vulgarly as heavy-spar. It is the 
weight of this heaviest of minerals, and not its lovely 
crystals, that gives it value. The rock is crushed, 
washed, sorted out by hand, to remove the foreign 
substances, then ground and subjected to acids, and 
at the end of the process it is as white and fine 
as the best bolted flour. This heavy adulterant is 
shipped to the North in large quantities, — the man- 
ager said he had recently an order for a hundred thou- 
sand dollars’ worth of it. What is the use of this 
powder? Well, it is of use to the dealer who sells 
white lead for paint, to increase the weight of the lead, 
and it is the belief hereabouts that it is mixed with 
powdered sugar. The industry is profitable to those 
engaged in it. 

It was impossible to get much information about 
our route into Tennessee, except that we should go 
by Paint Rock, and cross Paint Mountain. Late 
one morning, —a late start is inevitable here, — ac- 
companied by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by 
the rope ferry, and trotted down the pretty road, 
elevated above the stream and tree-shaded, offering 
always charming glimpses of swift water and over- 
hanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the 
other side of the river), to Paint Rock, — six miles. 
This Paint Rock is a naked precipice by the roadside, 
perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large local repu- 


250 ON HORSEBACK 


tation. It is said that its face shows painting done 
by the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can 
read. On this bold, crumbling cliff, innumerable vis- 
itors have written their names. We stared at it a 
good while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics, 
but could see nothing except iron stains. Round the 
corner is a farmhouse and place of call for visitors, 
a neat cottage, with a display of shells and minerals 
and flower-pots; and here we turned north, crossed 
the little stream called Paint River, the only clear 
water we had seen in a month, passed into the State 
of Tennessee, and by a gentle ascent climbed Paint 
Mountain. The open forest road, with the murmur 
of the stream below, was delightfully exhilarating, and 
as we rose the prospect opened, —the lovely valley 
below, Bald Mountains behind us, and the Butt 
Mountains rising as we came over the ridge. 

Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women 
or unintelligent men, knew anything of the route, 
or could give us any information of the country 
beyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the coun- 
try and the farms decidedly improved, — apple-trees. 
and a grapevine now and then. 

A ride of eight miles brought us to Waddle’s, 
hungry and disposed to receive hospitality. We 
passed by an old farm building to a new two-storied, 
gayly painted house on a hill. We were deceived by 
appearances. The new house, with a new couple in it, 
had nothing to offer us, except some buttermilk. 
Why should anybody be obliged to feed roving stran- 
gers? As to our horses, the young woman with a baby 
in her arms declared, — 


ww 


ON HORSEBACK 251 


“We ’ve got nothing for stock but roughness ; 
perhaps you can get something at the other house.” 

“ Roughness,” we found out at the other house, 
meant hay in this region. We procured for the horses 
a light meal of green oats, and for our own din- 
ner we drank at the brook and the Professor pro- 
duced a few sonnets. On this sustaining repast we 
fared on nearly twelve miles farther, through a roll- 
ing, good farming country, offering little for com- 
ment, in search of a night’s lodging with one of the 
brothers Snap. But one brother declined our com- 
pany on the plea that his wife was sick, and the other 
because his wife lived in Greenville, and we found 
ourselves as dusk came on without shelter in a tav- 
ernless land. Between the two refusals we enjoyed the 
most picturesque bit of scenery of the day, at the 
crossing of Camp Creek, a swift little stream, that 
swirled round under the ledge of bold rocks before 
the ford. This we learned was a favorite camp-meeting 
ground. Mary was calling the cattle home at the farm 
of the second Snap. It was a very peaceful scene of 
rural life, and we were inclined to tarry, but Mary, 
instead of calling us home with the cattle, advised us 
to ride on to Alexander’s before it got dark. 

It is proper to say that at Alexander’s we began 
to see what this pleasant and fruitful country might 
be, and will be, with thrift and intelligent farming. 
Mr. Alexander is a well-to-do farmer, with plenty 
of cattle and good barns (always an evidence of pros- 
perity), who owes his success to industry’ and an 
open mind to new ideas. He was a Unionist during 
the war, and is a Democrat now, though his county 


259 ON HORSEBACK 
(Greene) has been Republican. We had been riding 


all the afternoon through good land, and encounter- 
ing a better class of farmers. Peach-trees abounded 
(though this was an off year for fruit), and apples 
and grapes throve. It is a land of honey and of milk. 
The persimmon flourishes; and, sign of abundance 
generally, we believe, great flocks of turkey-buzzards 
— majestic floaters in the high air — hovered about. 
This country was ravaged during the war by Union- 
ists and Confederates alternately, the impartial pa- 
triots as they passed scooping in corn, bacon, and 
good horses, leaving the farmers little to live on. 
Mr. Alexander’s farm cost him forty dollars an acre, 
and yields good crops of wheat and maize. This 
was the first house on our journey where at break- 
fast we had grace before meat, though there had been 
many tables that needed it more. From the door 
the noble range of the Big Bald is in sight and not 
distant; and our host said he had a shanty on it, to 
which he was accustomed to go with his family for 
a month or six weeks in the summer and enjoy a 
real primitive woods life. * 
Refreshed by this little touch of civilization, and 
with horses well fed, we rode on next morning towards 
Jonesboro, over a rolling, rather unpicturesque 
country, but ennobled by the Big Bald and Butt 
ranges, which we had on our right all day. At noon 
we crossed the Nollechucky River at a ford where 
the water was up to the saddle girth, broad, rapid, 
muddy, and with a treacherous stony bottom, and 
came to the little hamlet of Boylesville, with a flour- 
mill, and a hospitable old-fashioned house, where we 


ON HORSEBACK 253 


found shelter from the heat of the hot day, and where 
the daughters of the house, especially one pretty girl 
in a short skirt and jaunty cap, contradicted the cur- 
rently received notion that this world is a weary pil- 
grimage. The big parlor, with its photographs and 
stereoscope, and bits of shell and mineral, a piano 
and a melodeon, and a coveted old sideboard of 
mahogany, recalled rural New England. Perhaps 
these refinements are due to the Washington College 
(a school for both sexes), which is near. We noted 
at the tables in this region a singular use of the word 
fruit. When we were asked, Will you have some 
of the fruit? and said Yes, we always got apple- 
sauce. 

Ten miles more in the late afternoon brought us 
to Jonesboro, the oldest town in the State, a pretty 
place, with a flavor of antiquity, set picturesquely on 
hills, with the great mountains in sight. People from 
further South find this an agreeable summering place, 
and a fair hotel, with odd galleries in front and rear, 
did not want company. The Warren Institute for 
negroes has been flourishing here ever since the war. 

A ride of twenty miles next day carried us to 
Union. Before noon we forded the Watauga, a 
stream not so large as the Nollechucky, and were 
entertained at the big brick house of Mr. Devault, 
a prosperous and hospitable farmer. This is a rich 
country. We had met in the morning wagon-loads 
of watermelons and muskmelons, on the way to Jones- 
boro,and Mr. Devault set abundance of these refresh- 
ing fruits before us as we lounged on the porch before 
dinner. 


254 ON HORSEBACK 


It was here that we made the acquaintance of a 
colored woman, a withered, bent old pensioner of 
the house, whose industry (she excelled any modern 
patent apple-parer) was unabated, although she was 
by her own confession (a woman, we believe, never 
owns her age till she has passed this point) and the 
testimony of others a hundred years old. But age 
had not impaired the brightness of her eyes, nor the 
limberness of her tongue, nor her shrewd good sense. 
She talked freely about the want of decency and mo- 
rality in the young colored folks .of the present day. 
It wasn’t so when she was a girl. Long, long time 
ago, she and her husband had been sold at sheriff’s 
sale and separated, and she never had another hus- 
band. Not that she blamed her master so much — 
he couldn’t help it; he got in debt. And she 
expounded her philosophy about the rich, and the 
danger they are in. The great trouble is that when a 
person is rich, he can borrow money so easy, and he 
keeps drawin’ it out of the bank and pilin’ up the 
debt, like rails on top of one another, till it needs a 
ladder to get on to the pile, and then it all comes 
down in a heap, and the man has to begin on the — 
bottom rail again. If she’d to live her life over 
again, she’d lay up money ; never cared much about 
it till now. The thrifty, shrewd old woman still 
walked about a good deal, and kept her eye on the 
neighborhood. Going out that morning she had seen 
some fence up the road that needed mending, and she 
told Mr. Devault that she didn’t liké such shift- 
lessness; she didn’t know as white folks was much 
better than colored folks. Slavery? Yes, slavery was 


ON HORSEBACK ass 


pretty bad— she had seen five hundred niggers in 
handcuffs, all together in a field, sold to be sent 
South. 

About six miles from here is a beech grove of his- 
torical interest, worth a visit if we could have spared 
the time. In it is the large beech (six and a half feet 
around six feet from the ground) on which Daniel . 
Boone shot a bear, when he was a rover in this region. - 
He himself cut an inscription on the tree recording 
his prowess, and it is still distinctly legible: 


D. BOONE CILT A BAR ON THIS TREE, 1760. 


This tree is a place of pilgrimage, and names of 
people from all parts of the country are cut on it, 
until there is scarcely room for any more records of 
such devotion. The grove is ancient looking, the 
trees are gnarled and moss-grown. Hundreds of peo- 
ple go there, and the trees are carved all over with 
their immortal names. 

A pleasant ride over a rich rolling country, with 
an occasional strip of forest, brought us to Union in 
the evening, with no other adventure than the meet- 
ing of a steam threshing-machine in the road, with 
steam up, clattering along. The devil himself could 
not invent any machine calculated to act on the nerves 
of a horse like this. Jack took one look and then 
dashed into the woods, scraping off his rider’s hat, 
but did not succeed in getting rid of his burden or 
knocking down any trees. 

Union, on the railway, is the forlornest of little 
villages, with some three hundred inhabitants and a 
forlorn hotel, kept by an ex-stage-driver. The vil- 


256 ON HORSEBACK 


lage, which lies on the Holston, has no drinking- 
water in it nor enterprise enough to bring it in; not 
a well nor a spring in its limits; and for drinking- 
water everybody crosses the river to a spring on the 
other side. A considerable part of the labor of the 
town is fetching water over the bridge. On a hill 
overlooking the village is a big, pretentious brick 
house, with a tower, the furniture of which is an 
object of wonder to those who have seen it. It be- 
longed to the late Mrs. Stover, daughter of Andrew 
Johnson. The whole family of the ex-President have 
departed this world, but his memory is still green in 
this region, where he was almost worshiped — so the 
people say in speaking of him. 

Forlorn as was the hotel at Union, the landlord’s 
daughters were beginning to draw the lines in rural 
refinement. One of them had been at school in 
Abingdon. Another, a mature young lady of fifteen, 
who waited on the table, in the leisure after supper 
asked the Friend for a light for her cigarette, which 
she had deftly rolled. 

“Why do you smoke?” i 

‘So as I shan’t get into the habit of dipping. Do 
you think dipping is nice?”’ 

The traveler was compelled to say that he did not, 
though he had seen a good deal of it wherever he — 
had been. | 

“ All the girls dips round here. But me and my 
sisters rather smoke than get in a habit of dipping.” 

To the observation that Union seemed to be a dull 
place : 

“Well, there’s gay times here in the winter — 


ON HORSEBACK 267 
dancing. Like to dance? Well, I should say! Last 


winter I went over to Blountsville to a dance in the 
court-house ; there was a trial between Union and 
Blountsville for the best dancing. You bet I brought 
back the cake and the blue ribbon.” 

The country was becoming too sophisticated, and 
the travelers hastened to the end of their journey. 
The next morning Bristol, at first over a hilly coun- 
try with magnificent oak-trees, — happily not girdled, 
as these stately monarchs were often seen along the 
roads in North Carolina, — and then up Beaver 
Creek, a turbid stream, turning some mills. When 
a closed woolen factory was pointed out to the Pro- 
fessor (who was still traveling for Reform), as the 
result of the agitation in Congress, he said, Yes, the 
effect of agitation was evident in all the decayed dams 
and ancient abandoned mills we had seen in the past 
month. 

Bristol is mainly one long street, with some good 
stores, but generally shabby, and on this hot morning 
sleepy. One side of the street 1s in Tennessee, the 
other in Virginia. How handy for fighting this would 
have been in the war, if Tennessee had gone out and 
Virginia stayed in. At the hotel — may a kind Pro- 
vidence wake it up to its responsibilities — we had 
the pleasure of reading one of those facetious hand- 
bills which the great railway companies of the West 
scatter about, the serious humor of which is so pleas- 
ing to our English friends. This one was issued by 
the accredited agents of the Ohio and Mississippi 
Railway, and dated April 1, 1984. One sentence 
will suffice : 

17 


258 ON HORSEBACK 


“ Allow us to thank our old traveling friends for 
the many favors in our line, and if you are going on 
your bridal trip, or to see your girl out West, drop 
in at the general office of the Ohio and Mississippi 
Railway and we will fix you up in Queen Anne style. 
Passengers for Dakota, Montana, or the Northwest 
will have an overcoat and sealskin cap thrown in with 
all tickets sold on or after the above date.” 

The great republic cannot yet take itself seriously. 
Let us hope the humors of it will last another gen- 
eration. Meditating on this, we hailed at sundown 
the spires of Abingdon, and regretted the end of a 
journey that seems to have been undertaken for no 
purpose. 


* 








MEXICAN NOTES 


I 


Pee PASO TO THE CITY iOF 
MEXICO 


ATURALLY one shrinks a little from 
IN crise about Mexico after passing less than 
two months in its vast territory. There is 
so much to be said, and there are so many qualifi- 
cations to be made to whatever is said. The longer one 
remains there, the more he will hesitate to put down 
even his impressions, and I fancy that in time one 
would abandon altogether any attempt to write out 
his conflicting ideas: so much depends upon the tem- 
per, the temperament, the tastes, the endurance, of the 
traveler. One person returns from a trip through 
Mexico in a glow of enthusiasm, interested in the 
people, enchanted with the climate, full of wonder 
over the scenery; another, weary with the long jour- 
neying, disgusted with the people, half starved by the 
unaccustomed diet, admits that the scenery 1s won- 
derful, though it is monotonous, and that the climate 
—except that the coast is too warm and the highland 
air is too rare — is delicious, and is heartily glad that 
the expedition has been made and is over. 
To me Mexico is one of the most interesting 


262 MEXICAN NOTES 


countries I have seen, and so novel on every hand 
that I enjoyed in a way that which is disagreeable 
almost as much as that which is pleasing. It is 
novel, and yet, now and again, strangely familiar ; 
for in its life it is a patchwork sort of country, 
with a degraded civilization, constantly suggesting, 
in a second-hand way, a half-dozen other countries 
and peoples. I spent most of my time outside the 
city of Mexico —for it is not there that the life, 
except a certain sort of artificial society life, is more 
advantageously to be studied —and in these papers 
I purpose to touch upon general life and manners 
and aspects of nature that came under my observa- 
tion, with the intention of replying to some of the 
questions that a returning traveler is commonly 
asked about the pseudo-republic.* 

Everything is on a vast scale. High ranges of 
bare mountains running parallel for hundreds of 
miles, with plains between, often stony and inhos- 
pitable, often good grazing land, verdure-clad under 
the summer rains, but brown and barren, except 
when irrigated, through the long rainless season from | 
October to June, —this is the general character of 
the highlands. Vastness is not picturesqueness, but 
those who prefer the Siérra-sort of scenery which 
characterizes our own Great West, to that of the 
New England and the Blue Ridge, like it. Descend- 
ing from the mountains about the city of Mexico 
in any direction to the coast by a succession of 
terraces, one has scenery of a different sort, but still 
grandiose, and any warmth of temperature desired. 

* The journey was made in February and March, 1887. 


EE PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 263 


Entering the country by the gate of El] Paso, — 
a gate of ash-heaps for hills, and sand, through . 
which the Rio Grande sprawls over quicksands, — 
one has still twelve hundred miles to traverse — two 
days and a half by rail— before reaching the city 
of Mexico. The road runs mainly through valleys 
with low hills on either side; but it is by no means 
a highland level; the road is constantly ascending 
and descending. Starting from a height of 3700 feet 
above the sea at El Paso, and never descending 
below this level, some high mountains are climbed 
on the way. The course is generally upward until 
the mountain silver-mining city of Zacatecas comes 
in view, about 8000 feet above the sea. From here. 
there is a sharp descent, but a high level is generally 
maintained till Marguez is reached, when the lost 
height is recovered in something over 8000 feet, and 
a descent made into the Tula Valley, the scenery 
and vegetation becoming more interesting. Then the 
great Spanish drainage cut (begun in the seventeenth 
century ), six or seven miles long, the Tajo de Nochis- 
tongo, is entered, and the traveler emerges upon the 
valley of the city of Mexico, about 7400 feet (some 
calculations make it two hundred feet less) above 
the sea. 

Sandy El Paso seldom has any rain, but its air, 
unaffected by the moisture of vegetation, is simply 
delicious, like that of the barren plains of western 
Texas. With five railways centering there, it is grow- 
ing rapidly, and is full of speculators, traders, gam- 
blers, and the usual accompaniments of frontier 
civilization. We changed money here, getting for 


264. MEXICAN NOTES 


$200 in United States money 249 Mexican silver 
dollars, as big and as valuable as our silver dollars ; 
but the advantage of the change was not immedi- 
ately apparent, for we paid at the stations one dollar 
for the same sort of meals we had paid seventy-five 
cents for in Texas. The Mexican Central road is 
smooth and good, except that the sand ballasting 
makes it occasionally dusty ; but nothing whatever 
is to be said in favor of the fare at its stations. The 
first decently served meal found was that at Aguas 
Calientes, and that was Mexican. The line does 
not run through a single town —all lie a mile or 
a mile and a half to one side, and are reached by 
horse-cars. Whether the people objected to having 
the railway near, or whether the company building it 
thought it more profitable to run street-cars to the 
towns, I do not know. Both reasons are given for 
the location. 

The way at first was over a rising plain, with brown 
serrated hills on both sides. For the first twenty-four 
hours the country was much in appearance like west- 
ern Texas — dry and sterile at this season. Chihua- . 
hua, as we saw it, a mile and a half off, is a brown 
city with conspicuous cathedral towers. As we got 
farther into the country, the people idling at the 
railway stations began to be very picturesque and 
poverty-stricken. The hats made the most distinct 
impression. Everybody seems to invest his fortune 
in his hat. They are in great variety, but all are high- 
crowned, of felt or straw, with a brim six inches 
broad, sometimes the crown black and the brim white, 
always ornamented with silver or white braid, or a 


Pre PASO? TO’ CITY OFF MEXICO 26% 


broad strap and buckle. The poor class is all in rags, 
cotton pantaloons, and a serape generally in strings, 
and irretrievably grimy. The towns on the road, — 
brown clusters of sun-baked mud,— the little adobe 
houses, the flat plain and pyramidal hills, reminded 
us of Egypt, as did the squalid people also. Nor was 
there wanting the peculiar minor cry or singsong of 
boys keeping the cattle on the plains. Now and then 
was seen a woman with fine dark eyes and comely 
copper-colored features. Handsome boys in rags 
were common, and pretty babies. At the stations was 
always a crowd of spectators. The favorite occupation 
of the men, clad in big hats, cotton trousers, and 
ragged colored serapes drawn about the shoulders, 
was to stand perfectly motionless, holding up some 
building. As we went south more life and more 
cattle appeared, — herds on herds, indeed, scattered 
over the brown plains, —and sheep also. Donkeys 
abounded. The rider of a donkey sits so far in the 
rear that a perpendicular line from his head would 
hit the ground, so that the donkey’s hind-legs seem 
to belong to the boy riding. The country improved 
in appearance when we were between five hundred 
and six hundred miles on our journey — still brown 
and dry, but evidently fruitful. Trees were wanting, 
but mesquit appeared, and small species of cacti. 
There was a good deal of color in the soil, and some 
lovely effects in the plains and the mountains. We 
were beginning to get one of the charms of Mexico, 
namely, atmospheric color, which makes a,garment 
for the fairest landscape — a drapery which the artists 
say is usually wanting in our Northern regions. 


266 MEXICAN NOTES 


At a little station, very early in the morning, be- 
fore we reached Calera, was a sort of gypsy, oriental 
encampment — tents, wagons, donkeys, vagabond 
men, women, and a band composed of harp, fiddle, 
and bass-viol, which hailed the rising sun with festive 
music. ‘These hospitable and hilarious people offered 
refreshments — coffee and something stronger—to 
the train passengers, and the women solicited them 
to go to a house near by and extemporize a dance. I 
supposed at first that this was a communal emigra- 
tion from one part of the country to another. But 
no. These people lived along the base of the moun- 
tains, and had come together for a frolic of a few 
days, with cock-fighting and plenty of whisky or its 
equivalent, aguardiente. 

Zacatecas, with its forty to fifty thousand inhab- 
itants, is an imposing city as seen from the rail which 
skirts it, and indeed looks down on it. The elevation 
is over eight thousand feet, and the town lies in a 
sort of cup in the mountains, a compact lot of small 
houses, yellow, red, blue, green, and a great cathe- 
dral in the midst. On the hillsides all about and in | 
the valley below it are the silver mines and works. 
The whole effect of color in the thin air is silver-gray. 
The wind is keen, and sweeps clouds of dust around 
the station, where there is a lively crowd of fruit 
hucksters and spectators, in great variety of colorand — 
costume. At a station beyond, a Mexican lady of 
quality comes on board. She is of the Spanish type, 
over-dressed in a flowered silk and black mantilla, 
rich dark complexion, through which the red blood 
shows, large black eyes, heavy cheeks, and coarse 


meena yOr CITY OFeMEXICO . 267 


mouth. With her are an elderly woman in black, 
and several young men, gentlemen, in big hats, fan- 
tastically braided trousers, and semibrigandish air. 

Aguas Calientes, where we have at the station a 
civilized dinner, is in the distance a well-shaded, 
pretty city. It is the fashionable Mexican hot-springs 
resort, and the stream from the springs, in which there 
is promiscuous bathing for a mile, is said to give one 
a fair idea of the Mexican disregard for conven- 
tionalities. At the table d’héte are several typical 
people: a light-haired Mexican, with high, narrow, 
empty forehead, very grave; the loud, swashbuckler 
major-domo of a neighboring hacienda, in an enor- 
mous white hat, fancy coat, and braided trousers, 
and a long pistol conspicuous in his belt; a big fat 
young gentleman with intensely black, small eyes, 
broad, heavy face, thin mustache, like a youth over- 
ripe, small forehead, and a big hat, talking to a little 
withered, parchment-faced man, attentive and obse- 
quious. 

Novel pictures constantly present themselves. The 
lady of quality descends at a way-station, where she 
is met by a handsome open carriage, with servants 
in livery, and a modern Spanish-looking gentleman, 
handsome, and not too extravagantly dressed in the 
Spanish mode. Her hacienda is not far off, at the foot 
of the hills. The lady is very well known in the city, 
and hasa history. Mexico abounds in “histories.” At 
all the stations are crowds of boys, men, and women, 
who offer for sale oranges, sweets, Mexican “‘ messes,” 
and queer-looking fruits which are out of season, and 
do not taste good, and they make a tremendous 


268 MEXICAN NOTES 


clamor, like Italian venders. The region beyond 
Silao boasts that it has ripe strawberries every month 
in the year. At Irapuato we bought a little basket 
of this fruit for fifty cents, not ripe, but still sweet. 
The basket was solidly filled with cabbage leaves ; 
and disposed on top neatly, so as to hide the leaves, 
were a couple of dozen berries. These simple peo- 
ple have nothing to learn of Northern market-men. 
We have struck a very old civilization. 

Tuesday morning at seven, having left El] Paso 
Saturday night at seven, we passed through the fa- 
mous deep cut or canal of Nochistongo. It is not 
picturesque, the walls being of hard earth, with little 
rock visible. This cut was first made by the Indians 
as a drain for the valley. People have wondered 
what they did with the excavated earth; acquaint- 
ance with the Indians suggests the explanation that 
they kept most of it on their persons. They are no 
longer attached to the soil as peons, but the soil is 
attached to them, and most of them are dirty enough 
to be called real estate. We are at last in the valley 
of the city of Mexico. This long route, through _ 
valleys and over mountains, somewhat dusty, always 
in the sunshine, with a temperate heat and good 
air, is monotonous in all its variety, but exceedingly 
interesting in the retrospect, considering that it is 
a railway journey, for we have seen many sorts of 
people and many strange costumes. 

The valley of the city of Mexico is circular in 
form, with an average breadth of thirty to thirty- 
five miles, and flat, save for some little hillocks. It 
has two shallow lakes, Chalco and Tezcoco, the one 


Bae pao LO CITY ORIMEXICO 265 


fresh and the other brackish. Chalco is connected 
directly with the city by a canal twelve miles long. 
The area is more generally marshy than otherwise, 
and cut by canals and irrigating ditches. To the 
north of the city some four miles is the hill and 
town of Guadalupe, with its sacred mineral spring ; 


g 


to the south three miles, at the end of the Paseo - 
drive, is the hill of Chapultepec. This basin is com- - 
pletely surrounded by mountains of varying height. — 


To the west they rise 10,000 feet (above the sea), 
and east, southerly, are the twin snow peaks Iztacci- 
huatl and Popocatepetl, the latter 17,500 feet high, 
and the former, the White Woman, a little lower. 
All the streams from the hills run into this basin, 
and there is absolutely no outlet for the water except 
the cut of Nochistongo, which affects only a small 
portion of the valley. Exit from the city to the 
country is on slightly raised causeways. Thus Mex- 
ico, which, from its elevation and superb, equable 
climate, should be the healthiest city in the world, 
is, wanting drainage, subject to various malarial and 
typhoid fevers and to pneumonia. One hesitates to 
speak of the climate, for that is so much a matter of 
individual adaptation. T’o most people, I think, the 
climate of the valley is delicious. The rare air, the 
necessity of breathing fast to get oxygen enough, 
quickens the pulse, and many new-comers have 
headache and a pain in the back of the neck; but 
these usually pass off in a few days. It may not suit 
those who have tendency to heart-disease, and much 
better places can be found in the republic for those 
with irritated throats and delicate lungs. The aver- 


270 MEXICAN NOTES 


age temperature, summer and winter, is about 70°, 
running from 60° to 80° and over. The winter is 
rainless and dry from, say, October to the last of 
May; the trees and hedges are dusty, and the land- 
scape brown; in summer the heat is no greater, but 
the air is cleared of dust and haze by daily showers, 
everything is green, blooming, and sparkling, and the 
atmosphere is said to be delicious. April and May 
are the warmest months of the year. With the sum- 
mer rains, which turn to snow on the highest moun- 
tains, of course the two volcanoes have much more 
snow than in winter. Occasionally in January the 
thermometer falls below the average, the snow lies 
for some hours on the encircling foothills, and the 
city experiences some chilly, uncomfortable days, for 
which it is wholly unprepared. The mass of the 
people and the soldiers, who wear cotton clothes 
the year round, evidently do not expect this sort of 
thing. For a Northerner I should say the dress for 
summer and winter should be his ordinary woolen 
apparel for spring and autumn, with a light overcoat 
for driving. ; 
No railways run into the city; the stations of all 
the roads are outside in the suburbs; but carriages 
are plenty and not dear, and street railways traverse 
the city in all directions, and run to the outlying vil- 
lages. These cars always go in pairs, a first-class 
closely followed by a second-class. For funerals, an 
open platform-car performs the service of a hearse. 
It used to be necessary, when the country was unsafe, 
for cars going into the villages to make up a train 
of at least three, with a guard of soldiers. 


Pi FASO LO CITY OF FMEXICO 27% 


The city, with some 300,000 inhabitants, spreads 
over a large area, with more houses of two than of 
three stories. The streets are of good width, laid at 
right angles, and often there is the agreeable per- 
spective of a mountain at the end; the house architec- 
ture is generally simple, square, with square windows, 
balconies, awnings, and with considerable color in 
the houses, — reddish, pink, cream, — colors usually 
toned down, but which give life and even refinement 
to the streets. For variety there are some solid, 
stately, half-Spanish buildings, now and then one 
very handsome with tiles, some fantastically painted, 
and the picture-decorated pulque shops. In churches 
and public buildings the city does not lack imposing 
architecture, yet the general effect is that of same- 
ness. There are many fine shops and pleasant ar- 
cades, especially in San Francisco Street, and about 
the Plaza; and of course there is more or less con- 
centration of such in the center of the city ; but as a 
rule the city differs from our cities in not having a 
business quarter and a residence quarter ; like Paris, 
shops are scattered all over the city, and the people 
live over them. The monotony of the right-angled 
streets is broken by some picturesque market squares ; 
by the large Cathedral Plaza; by the Alameda, a long 
narrow plot of ground with trees and semi-tropical 
vegetation; and the very broad and well-planted 
Paseo. This is lined with gardens and a few country 
houses, has some statues, and, running out three miles 
to Chapultepec, is the favorite driving and riding and 
display ground of all the world late in the afternoon. 
Of course it is understood that many of the edifices, 


272 MEXICAN NOTES 


hotels, public buildings and private, are built about 
courts, and that there are many pretty patios and gar- 
dens. In the shop windows is a good deal of cheap 
jewelry and a display of meretricious taste ; but there 
are more book and art stores, more pictures and 
engravings, than can be found in any southern city 
of the United States, and the art and fancy windows 
are usually thronged with spectators. The aspect of 
street life as to dress, in most parts of the town, is 
European, but it is motley as to color, most of the 
Mexicans being hybrids of all shades. Now and then 
appears an Indian woman, short and squat, with high 
cheek-bones, clad in a single piece of cotton cloth 
ingeniously wrapped about her. The water-carriers, 
half naked, with the jar on the back supported by a 
strap across the forehead, remind one of the Orient ; 
there are not many beggars, but the sidewalks are 
beset with women and children selling lottery tickets 
for daily drawings —the curse of the city; all the 
women, except in the upper class, wear invariably 
the graceful ribosa —a long shawl woven of cotton, 
with a deep fringe, generally light blue, worn over . 
the head or draped about the shoulders. The serape, 
or blanket, the national garb for the men, appears 
less frequently in the city than in the country. Men 
are watering the streets with pails and garden water- 
ing-pots. 

There are plenty of boarding-houses, built about 
courts, with interior galleries, most of the rooms 
opening only on the court, the fare being Mexican, 
and not bad when one is accustomed to it; seve- 
ral of the hotels are comfortable lodging-houses — 


DP ey pm 


BE PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 273 


pleasant if one gets a room with a window outside 
and a door upon the sunny court—and they have res- 
taurants attached. But all these, and all those in the 
city, are decidedly of the third class, and not tempt- 
ing to people with delicate appetites. There is no 
excuse for this poor cooking and indifferent service, 
for the markets are well supplied, and in private 
houses and clubs the tables are excellent. A good 
hotel would be much appreciated by travelers. The 
custom of the country is to take morning coffee, 
breakfast at twelve, and dine at six or seven o'clock. 

In itself, considering its mongrel population, cli- 
mate, and easy-going mode of life, and compared 
with any city of the United States, Mexico is interest- 
ing; contrasted with Continental cities, it is less so, 
and after its few “sights” are exhausted it becomes 
tiresome for the transient visitor — tiresome, that is, 
unless one devotes himself to the language, to a study 
of antiquities, or to social problems, such as that of 
the mixed race. All big cities are much alike after 
the surface novelties are worn off. There remains, 
of course, “society,” somewhat secluded under the 
republic, and slightly enlivened by the foreign lega- 
tions. There are many German and French mer- 
chants, and a few Englishmen doing business, but 
there are no American merchants. Generally speak- 
ing, the Americans, who have drifted in from the 
frontier as adventurers, or have fled here for personal 
reasons, have not been men who gave the Mexicans 
a favorable idea of American breeding, manners, or 
character. The railway service has carried there a 


different element. The Mexican himself thinks a 
18 


274 MEXICAN NOTES 


great deal of manners and exterior courtesy, though 
his ideas of integrity are decidedly oriental. 

In its shops the city is more modern than the trav- 
eler expects to find it. Antiquity shops are few, and 
these have been pretty well ransacked by excursion- 
ists and dealers. Old Spanish lace and mantillas can 
be had only by chance, and old Spanish and Indian 
curios have been mostly picked up; yet treasures 
remain to the patient searcher in the way of old books, 
especially Spanish; and odd things illustrating the 
costumes and the industries of the country can be 
found occasionally. But as a rule the most charac- 
teristic things in the republic are to be sought in the 
provincial cities and the small villages. Lack of com- 
munication has preserved loca] peculiarities. Wher- 
ever the traveler goes, he will find some local flavor 
and some habits and costumes new to his experience. 
As to the “sights” of the city, they have been so 
fully written of that description in any detail would 
be out of place in a general view of this sort. The 
old tourist will probably most enjoy wandering about 
town and seeing how the Mexicans live; but there 
are a few sights that he must see in order to retain 
the respect of his home friends: these are the Cathe- 
dral, the Museum and Picture Gallery, the National 
Library, Chapultepec, Guadalupe, the Noche Triste 
Tree, and the canal leading to Lake Chalco. 

The Cathedral is perhaps imposing by its size, not 
otherwise — a jumble of bad Spanish architecture, 
and barren and uninteresting within, in comparison 
with Continental cathedrals. The Picture Gallery, 
San Carlos, may have interest historically ; artistically 





Peeenow re CrrY ORME XICO 275 


it has none. The walls are hung with old Spanish 
sacred rubbish, and the modern paintings are as bad, 
showing little new life or growth. There is not a 
painting that one would care to bring away for the 
cost of carriage. But the government has a school 
here, where pupils draw from casts and architectural 
designs. Much of the work of the pupils was credit- 
able, and the school is full of promise. At the Mu- 
seum of Mexican Antiquities the visitor will care 
to spend more time, though the country has been 
stripped of the relics of the old races by foreigners. 
There is a fair display of Aztec pottery, a little gold, 
a few ornaments, part of a dress worn by Monte- 
zuma; but the most interesting object in the part of 
the Museum that is arranged is the Aztec picture- 
writing. In a large lumber-room opening out of the 
court below, and usually kept locked, are the larger 
monuments of the old civilization. This room has 
an earth floor, and is in disorder. Carpenters are 
said to be at work in it, and the government has 
been for years putting it in order, but it is in about 
the condition of the Sultan’s museum of antiqui- 
ties at Constantinople. Here is the Calendar Stone, 
with its enigmatical figures, and sacrificial stones, the 
uncouth images, the heavy recumbent figures, with 
head raised and knees drawn up, the conical stones, 
having serpents with feathers coiled about them. 
The impression made upon my mind by these objects 
was that of grotesqueness. Probably they are not 
meaningless, but they seem so. There is nothing 
in our civilization or tradition that brings us ex 
rapport with them, or enables us to comprehend 


ag 


276 MEXICAN NOTES 


them. There is no beauty of form to appeal to us; 
nothing in the sculpture or designs that comes within 
the scope of our ideas; nothing intellectual. The 
inscriptions and characters give us no starting-point 
of sympathy. They seem to us not simply fantastic, 
but the work of people whose fancies were entirely 
out of the line of our own development. In this 
they differ wholly from the Egyptian remains, which 
are simpler, and, though we cannot understand them, 
appeal to something that we have in common with 
all antiquity. I am not referring to the comparative 
difficulty of reading the Egyptian hieroglyphics and 
the Mexican characters or ornamental designs, but 
to the essential difference in the appearance to our 
eyes; the one is civilized, and the other barbarous. 
The National Library, housed in a sequestrated 
church, is a vast collection of Spanish and mainly 
ecclesiastical literature, wanting a catalogue and pro- 
per arrangement, but no doubt a good mousing- 
place for the student. 

On the 17th of February, in the afternoon, when 
we drove out the broad Paseo to Chapultepec, the _ 
wind was fresh and chilly, the day was cloudy, and 
later there was a little rain. Indeed, about this time 
of year clouds begin to gather late in the day, the air 
becomes thick and hazy in the distance, so that the 
high mountains are obscured. This thickening of 
the atmosphere does not mean usually immediate 
rain, but daily the cloudiness increases until the daily 
summer rains begin. After they set in, the atmos- 
phere for the greater part of the day is dazzlingly 
clear. For scenery, therefore, Mexico should be 


eek) CIUY O8MMIEXICO 274 


visited in the summer. The temperature is no higher 
than in the winter, on the high lands, but vegetation 
is fresh, and the air is clear. From the Paseo drive 
the twin snow-clad volcanoes Popocatepetl and Iz- 
taccihuatl are visible; but, especially in the winter 
atmosphere, they seem distant, and do not dominate 
the city as one is led to expect from the pictorial 
representations. 

Chapultepec is a mass of rock perhaps two hun- 
dred feet high, springing abruptly from the plain, 
but behind it are low elevations gradually rising to 
the foothills. About the foot of this hill are semi- 
tropical gardens and the famous Cypress Grove. The 
roads winding through the noble avenues are the 
favorite resort for driving and riding. These trees, 
towering to a great height, magnificent in the stately 
upspringing of their trunks, and lovely in the deep 
cinnamon-color of the bark, are not to be compared 
to anything I have seen elsewhere. They are very 
old; one of them is called the Tree of Montezuma, 
and the grove was no doubt old when he reigned. 
I put the tape to one of them five feet above the 
ground, and got a girth of thirty-nine feet. I believe 
the Montezuma tree is larger. 

The summit of the hill is reached by a winding 
carriage road, and here on a small uneven plateau 
are massed the President’s palace and the Military 
School, the West Point of the republic. Admission 
is by card from the governor of the city, and usu- 
ally gives access simply to the grounds; but as one 
of our party had friends in the school, we were very 
courteously shown everything in the academy and 


278 MEXICAN NOTES 


the palace. The cadets were fine, intelligent young 
fellows; the place was thoroughly neat, and disci- 
pline seemed good. I do not know enough about war 
to compare this with other schools of the same char- 
acter, but its appliances seemed rather limited. There 
is, however, a cannon foundry in the neighborhood, 
and a manufactory of Winchester arms. We looked 
with interest at the monument erected to the memory 
of the cadets who fell in the defense of the place in 
our war with Mexico — mere striplings who fought 
like heroes, and are held in great honor. There is 
still a good deal of feeling about this fight in the 
academy. If the Mexican soldiers had been as cour- 
ageous and manly as these boys, our capture of the 
city would have been a much more difficult under- 
taking. The palace, in process of refurnishing for 
the residence of the President, is only a tolerably 
fine building, but the interior decorations are ele- 
gant, very costly, and for the most part in exquisite 
taste. This taste, however, except 1n some rooms 
whose walls are tiled with beautiful tiles distinctly 
Persian in color and effect, is the taste of New York. 
The palace has charming galleries and ombras, and 
pretty cultivated gardens in its inclosure. The charm 
of it, however, is in its noble situation. There are 
grander views in the world than that from its espla- 
nade, but few more poetical, or offering so great vari- 
ety, few that change more in varied beauty with the 
different lights and changing atmosphere. One does 
not need to summon all the romance and history of 
the place to enjoy the prospect. It is that of the vast 
basin of Mexico, with its shining city, its glittering 


BIZ PASO TO CITY OK MEXICO 279 


lakes, its silver canals, its luxury of vegetation, its 
villages and church towers, and around all the circuit 
of mountains, huge, hazy, and dreamy, the whole 
steeped in color, and lording it over all the twin snow 
peaks, white, spotless, standing on the edge of eter- 
nal summer, pure as the rare air of their perpetual 
winter. 

On the tramway that runs to Atzcapotzalco over 
the causeway, in the little hamlet of Popotla, some 
three miles from the Plaza, stands what remains of 
the Noche Triste Tree. It is said that Cortez halted 
by this tree and wept on the awful night of his 
expulsion from the city. This touch of emotion in 
the conqueror has consecrated the spot more than 
a victory. This once gigantic cypress is now only a 
decayed stump, the interior half burned out, but it 
still supports a few straggling branches, from which 
gray moss depends like a funeral trapping. It is pro- 
tected by an iron fence, and a policeman lounges 
near to see that no visitor chips off a relic from it. 
There was not much life about the open triangle 
where it stands, only a beggar, the usual young girl 
with a baby, a barefooted Indian trotting by with 
her basket, and some Mexican women in the door 
of a pulque shop. 

Guadalupe, famous for the shrine of Our Lady of 
that name, is a rocky hill, very like Chapultepec, and 
about as far north of the city as Chapultepec is to 
the south. They are two corresponding sentinels of 
the plain. At the foot of the hill is the cathedral, 
very large, but remarkable for nothing except a su- 
perb altar railing of silver. Near it is a pretty public 


280 MEXICAN NOTES 


garden, with a fountain and sweet-smelling shrubs, 
the ground carpeted with violets. It speaks much 
for the gentle and refined character of the Mexicans 
that such cool little nooks of beauty and repose are 
common. Ata little distance, but still on the plain, 
is the highly decorated chapel of Our Lady. In the 
vestibule and covered by an iron cage is a bubbling 
spring of cool mineral water, pungent, but agreeable 
to the taste, and much resorted to by the thirsty and 
the devout. It sprang up in the spot where Our 
Lady appeared to the peasant, a most gracious mir- 
acle. From this chapel a zigzag paved road, with 
shrines set at the angles, leads up the hill to the 
church and cemetery on the top. The church— al- 
ways filled with peasant worshipers, men in ragged 
attire, kneeling women with the graceful ribosa drawn 
over the head, and half-clad children — is only a bare 
chapel, but there are some fine tombs in the ceme- 
tery, and there lies Santa Anna, the hero of so many 
defeats. The view from the esplanade is very fine, 
and of the same character and extent as that from 
Chapultepec, except that Lake Tezcoco is a more - 
prominent feature in the landscape. It is a place to 
dream in; romance, history, beauty, the contrasts of 
nature — what has not Heaven done for this deli- 
cious land? Is it true that where nature is most lav- 
ish the people are least worthy? But whatever these 
people lack, they have apparent contentment. What 
a gentle atmosphere of peace and repose there was 
about the shrine, and in the garden, and in the 
shadow of the cathedral, where the women sat selling 
little cakes, variegated in color, about as big as Lima 


EL PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 281 


beans, which they patted into shape, and baked over 
charcoal fires in sight of the purchasers. 

Whatever the tourist omits, he should not neglect 
a ride on La Viga, the canal that connects the city 
with Lake Chalco. If he cannot spend a day thread- 
ing this tropical marshland, this unique country of 
dikes, ‘‘ floating gardens,” waterfowl, brilliant vege- 
tation, and semi-amphibious people, let him at least 
go as far as the hamlet of Santa Anita, in the midst 
of the Chinampas —a pleasure resort of the middle 
and lower classes. Here are a world and a life dif- 
ferent from any other, and yet curiously suggestive 
of many others; a mixture of Egypt, Venice, and the 
South Sea Islands. We took boat at the Embar- 
cadero, on an arm of the canal that enters the city, 
a most unsavory but picturesque place. Here are 
rows of barges, vegetable boats, and canoes. Our boat 
was a flat-bottomed parallelogram, with striped calico 
awning and curtains, and seats along the sides. The 
size of the boat and the lowness of the canopy are 
determined by the low arch of a bridge which has to 
be passed by all boats in the main canal. Our boat- 
man was a squat, sturdy-legged, yellow Mexican, who 
stood in the bow, and used a pole to propel the boat. 
When once we were clear of the small canal, with 
its washer-women, loafers, evil-smelling habitations, 
tanneries, and the ruck of city life, and came into 
the broad silver stream, the poling boatman sent us 
on with an easy, lulling motion, different from the 
gyration of the gondola, but as fascinatirig; and 
we were in a world of novelty, color, and repose —a 
blue sky, a gentle breeze that just makes sparkling 


282 MEXICAN NOTES 


the placid stream, and banks offering constant noy- 
elties. 

In the neglect and decay there is a certain charm ; 
low houses overrun with honeysuckle and Castilian 
roses, ruins embowered in callas, poplars and cotton- 
woods overhanging the water, gardens wild and tan- 
gled, a low doorway in a brown adobe hut, with a 
group of dark-skinned girls and children, a field of 
yellow grain strewn with flaming poppies, the great 
sweep of level vegetation, intersected by ditches and 
canals stretching away off to the white twin moun- 
tains. The scene, so reposeful, is full of life. A 
road runs by the canal, and here dash along horse- 
men in gay trappings, big-hatted, silver-spangled 
riders, and saddles and bridles stiff with ornament, 
carriages with lolling beauties, or packed with noisy 
pleasure-seekers, swarthy Indian women, wrapped in 
a single strip of cotton, trotting along under their 
burdens; there are the tinkling of guitars in wayside 
resorts, the calls of boatmen and of laborers in the 
gardens. The stream is enlivened by crafts of all 
sorts — dugouts, canoes, barges, each on its errand ° 
of business or pleasure. Whatever the occupation, 
whatever the want, or the dissipation, or the indi- 
gence, it all seems like a holiday. Barges going to 
the city market are piled high with vegetables, — 
golden carrots, blood-red beets, green cabbages, laid 
up in square masses like masonry, — heaps of.color ; 
boatloads of flowers — sweet peas, poppies, pinks, 
roses, gillyflowers — flaming in the sun, and filling 
the air with perfume as they pass, and long scows 
packed with men, women, and children, of the shop- 


EL PASO TO CITY OF MEXICO 283 


keeping class, out for a holiday. One boatload of rev- 
elers draws to our side, and as we float along through 
this enchanting land, the men, thrumming the guitar, 
the mandolin, and the zither, play for us the Mexican 
national anthem and the minor dance music which 
comes down from the Moors of Spain, and the wo- 
men, dark, comely, with Egyptian features and Egyp- 
tian languor, shoot glances from under their ribosas 
at the foreigners. These people have the good- 
humor, the complacency, the passion, of their clime. 

Santa Anita is an Indian village, a collection of 
low thatched houses, African in appearance, set in 
plantations of bananas and cacti, with narrow, clean- 
swept streets, pulque shops, and houses of entertain- 
ment for the lower orders. It is a shabby sort of 
paradise ; the city rough is here, the dissolute players 
on mandolins, the bedizened young Mexican, the 
shapely, bronze-limbed Indian who works in the fields 
or poles the boats through the network of canals, the 
painted city yellow-girl, the broad-faced Indian girl 
who sells flowers cut out of beets and carrots, and 
the hot little messes which the Mexicans love; and 
here the municipal police are more numerous than 
elsewhere, for here is always a more or less suspi- 
cious lot of idlers and pleasure-seekers, come to eat 
stewed duck, tamales, and the piquant compounds 
of chile and chopped meat, and above all to drink 
pulque. The chinampas, or so-called floating gardens, 
which surround this hamlet and occupy all this vast 
marsh territory, and which supply the city with vege- 
tables and flowers, are not at all floating. They are 
little patches of ground, sometimes not bigger than 


284 MEXICAN NOTES 


a blanket, formed by scraping up the earth in a 
mound, which is held in place by wattles. The water 
flows around each patch of ground, so that the whole 
region is a network of ditches and canals, set with 
little squares of vegetables and flowers. The people 
who cultivate these damp spots live in their boats or 
in the most primitive huts, and pass, as we said, a 
semi-amphibious existence, on a moral plane as low 
as their country; yet they seem to be a vigorous 
race, and the sculptor would find many good models 
here. Flowers, music, an equable climate that calls 
for no more exertion in winter than in summer, and 
demands not much in the way of food or clothing, 
a mixed blood in which flow the vices of two conti- 
nents — it is not here that one expects the virile 
Puritan virtues that make an effective people. But 
so fascinating, so picturesque, so full of light and 
color and warmth, is this region of Capuan sugges- 
tions that it is not till afterward that the tourist 
indulges in such reflections. 

In returning, we followed the small canal down 
into the heart of the city, to one of the great popu- 
Jar market-places. Here, where lie the barges with 
their gay loads of fruits, flowers, and vegetables, 
where the canal crosses the streets under low, flat 
arches, one is faintly reminded of the Rialto. But it 
is one of the lowest parts of the city, and at night 
might be dangerous. It swarms with ill-favored, ill- 
savored people, a brutal populace, streets of second- 
hand shops, rags, low resorts, and pulque shops, 
with as many drunken women as drunken men. 

One can study in the city, as in any large city, all 


Pia PASOO VO CITY OF MEXICO § 28% 


sorts of life, but the ordinary tourist finds it want- 
ing in the attractions of Continental cities. But the 
city is not only the capital, it is the center of all 
the political life of the republic. For in all outward 
forms this is a federal republic. The city and its 
environs form the federal district, in the State of 
Mexico. Besides this state there are twenty-six other 
states, each with its governor and local legisla- 
ture, its system of schools. The federal constitution 
is a model one, there is all the machinery of a 
republican government, two elected Houses, a Presi- 
dent popularly chosen for a term of six years, who is 
ineligible again until a term has intervened. But the 
President is, in fact, elected by agreement among a 
knot of leaders, and the office is a matter of arrange- 
ment, bargained for usually a long time in the 
future. Every governor of a state is practically dic- 
tated by this little junta at the capital, and every 
officer, even to mayors of cities, is so chosen. It is 
the most purely personal government in the world. 
Whatever elective forms are gone through with, this 
is the fact. When the first term of Diaz expired, 
Gonzales came in by arrangement ; when the latter 
retired, it was to a governorship. Diaz has a pre- 
dominance of Indian blood, Gonzales of Spanish. 
In his first term Diaz took an enlightened view 
of the needs of Mexico and its external relations. 
He invited capital and promoted railways by libe- 
ral subsidies. The railways were built; the subsidies 
have not been paid. The country was infested with 
brigands. These brigands were not Indians, but of 
the mixed Spanish race who had possessions, and 


286 MEXICAN NOTES 


took to the highways only on occasion, or when the 
country was politically disturbed. Vigorous efforts 
were made to suppress this by the government. Gon- 
zales had the reputation of being the head of these 
quasi-brigands. When he came into power, brig- 
andage was still more effectively suppressed. Peo- 
ple say that his method was to put all the brigands 
in office, make them governors, mayors, and high 
district officials, where they could make more than 
by intercepting caravans, stopping diligences, and 
carrying off owners of haciendas. And it is univer- 
sally believed in Mexico that Gonzales in his term 
of four years saved out of his salary between twelve 
and eighteen millions of dollars, which is now well 
invested. These leaders are astute diplomatists, as 
wary and as supple and subtle as the Turks. Who- 
ever makes a treaty with them is likely to be con- 
fused by the result; whoever invests money in Mex- 
ico, either in public works or in private enterprise, 
does so at his risk. Any basis of confidence is wanting 
in business. The Mexicans do not trust each other. 
They always seem surprised when a foreigner does as 
he said he would do. The moral condition is some-’' 
thing like that of Egypt. The atmosphere of Egypt 
is one of universal lying. We who are accustomed to 
do business on universal faith—the presumption being 
that a man is honest until the contrary is proved — 
cannot understand a social state where the contrary is 
the assumption. 

One can readily grant to Diaz patriotic intentions, 
and the desire to have Mexico take an honorable 
place in the world; but justice is not had priceless 


PeeenoorLOrCITY ORSMEXICO 287 


in the courts, the officials are all serving their own 
interests, and official corruption is universal. And 
yet travel is now safe, public order is maintained, 
and there is marked progress in education. Still, 
whatever the government is, there is no public, no 
public opinion, no general comprehension of polit- 
ical action, no really representative government, or 
representative election. There are few newspapers, - 
the people are not informed, and the mass of them 
are indifferent, so long as they personally are not 
disturbed. In only one case (the action of the Con- 
gress in regard tothe English debt — action promoted 
by a determined demonstration of the students in the 
city) has there been any sign of the independence of 
the legislature. Mexico remains, in effect, a personal 
government, with no political public. I am making 
no sweeping declaration as to the character of the 
mongrel population; it has its good points. These 
will appear as we travel farther. 


II 


CUAW TIER 


(Jee emp is a typical Mexican village in 


the temperate region, about four thousand 
feet above the sea, in the State of Morelos, 
which adjoins the State of Mexico on the south. 
It is reached by a railway — eighty miles in seven 
hours — which climbs out of the valley eastward, 
and then runs south and west, making an almost 
exact half-circle to its destination. In Mexico the 
railways must run where the mountains permit. 
The first part of the way lies over the flat plain, 
through the chinampas, or little patches of truck 
gardens, over narrow canals and ditches, through 
overflowed ground with tufts of marsh-grass, and 
between the two lakes. The whole region is alive 
with teal ducks, which rise from the lagoon and whirl - 
away in flocks as the train passes. On the slightly’ 
elevated roads donkeys laden with vegetables (the 
patient beast which a witty woman calls “ the short 
and simple animal of the poor”); Indian women, also 
bent to their burdens, short, with flat faces, brown 
legs, small feet, and small hands, —the aristocracy 
of the soil; and Mexican laborers in ragged serapes 
and broad straw hats, file along toward the city. Soon 
abrupt elevations in the plain are reached, picturesque 
heights with churches, and the foothills are entered. 


CUAUTLA 289 


The journey grows more interesting as we ascend, the 
adobe villages have a more foreign character, and 
the mixed population becomes more picturesque in 
costume and habits. The train is made up of first, 
second, and third-class cars. The Mexican men in 
the first-class, yellow half-breeds, are gorgeous in 
array, wearing enormous and heavy high-crowned, 
broad-brimmed hats, loaded with silver and gold bul- 
lion, trousers braided down the seams or thick-sewn 
with coins or buttons of silver, every man with a 
pistol ostentatiously strapped on his waist, and many 
of them carrying guns. These gentlemen are going 
to hunt at some hacienda in the hills, and at the sta- 
tions where they alight there is great scurrying about, 
getting into rickety carriages, mounting heavily capar- 
isoned little horses, which fidget and curvet. There 
is an amusing air of bravado about it all. 

The third-class cars have four parallel benches run- 
ning from end to end, and are packed with a motley 
throng — Indian-looking Mexican women in blue 
ribosas, plenty of children and babies, men in soiled 
serapes and big hats, everybody eating some odd 
mess. At all the stations the train makes a long halt, 
and the sides of the cars swarm with hucksters, mostly 
women and boys, offering the zapotas and other taste- 
less fruits, tamales and other indescribable edibles, 
ices (flavored and colored snow), pink drinks faintly 
savored with limes, and pulque. The tamal is a favor- 
ite composite all over the republic. It consists of 
chopped meat, tomatoes, and chile rolled in a tor- 
tilla. The tortilla, perhaps it is necessary to say the 
almost universal country substitute for bread, is a 

19 


290 MEXICAN NOTES 


cake made of maize, and about the size of a large 
buckwheat cake. Its manufacture is one of the chief 
occupations of the women. In almost every hut and 
garden one can hear the grinding and the patting of 
the tortilla. Seated on the ground, the woman has 
beside her a dish of soaking grains of maize. In front 
of her is a curved stone, and upon this she mashes 
the maize with a stone roller held in both hands until 
it is a paste. This paste she moulds and skillfully 
pats into shape, and lays upon a piece of sheet-iron 
to bake over a charcoal fire. Too often it is like 
Ephraim — “a cake not turned.” 

Beggars abound, hideously malshapen and afflicted. 
At one station a sightless giant (who could, however, 
see a train of cars and pick up a piece of money), six 
feet four inches in his bare feet, a mass of streaming 
hair and tattered clothes, roared aloud for charity. 
Kneeling on the ground opposite the cars, so that 
his face was about on a level with the windows, he 
delivered a long oration in sonorous Spanish. When 
a bit of money was thrown him, he picked it up and 
kissed it fervently, and called down all the blessings | 
of Heaven on the giver. When he got nothing, he” 
cursed the entire train in a blast of anti-Scriptural 
language enough to blow it off the track. He does 
very well at this business, and is the owner of houses, 
and is a comfortable citizen when not excited by a 
railway train. The population, on the whole, looks 
poor and degraded; but the women, though squat 
in figure and aboriginal in feature, the Indian type 
predominating over the Spanish, have pleasant faces, 
and wear an aspect of patience. 


CUAUTLA 291 


Atand before we reached Amecameca, an elevation 
of over eight thousand feet, the twin snow mountains 
rose in view, and thereafter lorded it over the landscape 
in all our winding way. From Amecameca the ascent 
of Popocatepetl is usually made, and the cone shows 
very grandly across the ravine from its elevation. 
This is the village of sacred shrines and noble groves, 
much resorted to by pilgrims and excursionists. At 
the sacred festival in May as many as forty thousand 
worshipers assemble here. At Ozumba, where the road 
begins to descend, we breakfasted very well for fifty 
cents, in a rude shanty, on eggs, rice, beefsteak, three 
or four other kinds of meat and stews, sweets, pulque, 
and black coffee. The pulque is best in these high 
regions. It is a viscous milk-white fluid, very whole- 
some and sustaining, and would be a most agreeable 
drink if it “tasted good.” In fact, it tastes, when it 
has been a few days fermented, like a mixture of but- 
termilk and sour cider. But many strangers become 
very fond of it. The older it grows, the more intoxi- 
cating it is. As the reader knows, probably, it is 
drawn from the maguey plant, called by us the “cen- 
tury,” which grows on these elevations to a great size, 
and is the cleanest-limbed and most vigorous and 
wholesome-looking product of the region. When it 
matures, it shoots up a stout spike ten or twenty feet 
high from the center, bearing brilliant orange flowers. 
When the plant is ready to tap, the center stalk is 
cut out, and the sap collects in the cup thus formed. 
It is dipped out, or sucked out by a tube, and when 
first drawn is mild, cool, and refreshing. In about 
three days it begins to ferment. As it is often carried 


292 MEXICAN NOTES 


to market on the backs of natives in pig or goat-skins, 
it gets a disagreeable favor. The maguey plant has 
many uses. It is eaten cut up and preserved like 
melon rinds. Its long tough fiber is very extensively 
used in making ropes and cordage. The end of each 

leaf terminates in a hard, sharp, black thorn. Break 
~ off this thorn and strip down the fibers attached to it, 
and you have a capital needle and thread for coarse 
sewing. The muleteers use it to mend their saddles 
and broken harness straps. What encouragement 
is there to industry when nature furnishes in one 
plant drink, food, needles and thread, and a rope for 
lariats? 

From Ozumba the descent was rapid, in most ex- 
traordinary loops and curves, the Jong train, which 
was nearly all freight cars, so doubling on itself that 
the passengers in the rear car could almost shake 
hands with the engineer on the curves. The air on 
the summit had been cool, but it grew rapidly warm 
as we descended to Cuautla. Olive groves were seen 
on the slopes, and peach-trees were in bloom in the 
little mud villages. The descent was exciting in its 
rapidity, and the ever-changing view —a vast pano- " 
rama of mountains and valleys — kept us on the 
qui vive. In our windings the twin volcanoes were 
always in sight, first on one side and then on the 
other, Popocatepetl, almost a regular cone of snow, 
17,500 feet in the azure sky, and Iztaccihuatl, a little 
lower, but longer, with a jagged, serrated summit, 
and buttressed by gigantic ledges. Nothing is finer 
than the majesty of these mountains, so rich in color, 
so changing in hue at different angles of vision, so 


SUAUTES 293 


nobly dominating the vast slopes down which we 
were rushing. The country was brown in this dry 
season, but the soil looked fertile, ready to burst 
into bloom with the summer rains. As we wound 
down into the valley, shabby brown villages, both 
Mexican and Indian, were passed, each with its big 
cathedral, some of the churches almost in ruins and 
deserted, remnants of the old Spanish religious en- 
thusiasm. In some of these Indian villages quite 
primitive customs still prevail, and the inhabitants 
are as shy of foreigners as they were before the con- 
quest. The plain of Cuautla is watered by a cool 
mountain stream, and abundantly irrigated ; trees 
dot the valley, and we had the welcome sight of 
green fields. Just before reaching the town we ran 
through vast plantations of cane in all stages of 
growth. 

Cuautla, which is too hot and damp in the sum- 
mer, has a singularly agreeable winter climate, with 
a warm, direct sun, but a very genial atmosphere. 
The railway has a picturesque station and storehouse 
in an abandoned church. We passed from that across 
a tree-planted square to the Hotel San Diego. This 
is a house of one story, with interior colonnades, 
built about a large court or garden. All the rooms, 
— which have brick or stone floors, and are furnished 
only with movable cots, a chair, a small washstand, 
a bit of mirror (when the irresponsible maid-of-all- 
work does not carry it away to some other apart- 
ment), and perhaps a mat by the cot-side, — open 
on the court, and most of them have no other open- 
ing for light and air except the door. A few on the 


294. MEXICAN NOTES 


street have windows and wooden shutters. The fare 
is not quite as primitive as the apartments, for the 
French landlord introduces some variety into the 
Mexican cuisine. The garden, although the kitchen 
is on one side of it, and it is not altogether tidy, is a 
sunny, lovely spot, with a fountain, flowers, bananas, 
a date-palm, zapotas, jinnies, and other fruit and 
flowering plants, and Popocatepetl is seen over its 
trees. 

It is difficult to give an idea of a village so foreign 
to general experience, oriental in so many of its 
aspects, and semi-tropical in its vegetation. Its main 
streets are regular, continuous blocks of one-story 
adobe houses and shops, — the latter like those in an 
Italian village, — and present mainly blank walls to 
the passer-by, through the doors of which one looks 
into a court or a garden. There is a formal plaza, 
with the municipal buildings and shops on three 
sides, and the principal church on the other, none 
of them remarkable; but the plaza has fountains, 
sweet shrubs, trees, and flowers, and a band-stand. 
The minor streets are simply monotonous rows of 
adobe walls, some are narrow and roughly paved, but — 
half the town consists of lanes, dusty and unpaved, 
bordered with gardens and huts, and overhung 
with the foliage of fruit-trees and with vines. It is 
all novel, however; the odd little shops— bakers’, 
butchers’, barbers’, jewelers’, all on a small scale and 
primitive — and the queer costumes, bits of colors 
in the walls, groups of yellow children, a dog riding 
a donkey, pretty girls in the doorways, women in 
ribosas, men in white, always with the enormous 


CUAUTLA 295 


hats : some strange sight continually catches the eye. 
In one of the churchyards are the handsome trees 
whose flowers are bunches of long crimson tassels, 
and in another are the parotas, splendid growths, one 
of them overrun with a gigantic vine, the copa de oro, 
which hung out all over it its great yellow flowers, 
literal cups of gold. In the large church a few peo- 
ple were kneeling on the floor, women mostly ; the 
interior was cheap and shabby, and gaudily painted 
in staring colors. 

The reason that the shops are so small and of 
little consequence is that almost all the buying and 
selling is done in open market on the regular market- 
day. To this the dealers take their merchandise, and 
the country people bring their produce. In Cuautla 
Sunday is the chief market-day, and to the market we 
went after morning coffee. It was a large open space, 
dusty, with booths about the sides, and a couple of 
roofed platforms in the middle. Here were for sale 
meats, vegetables, fruits, mats, hats, sugar, cloth, every 
sort of merchandise, mostly spread upon the ground, 
oriental fashion. But for the absence of camels and 
turbans and derweeshes one might have fancied him- 
self ina North African market-place. It was thronged. 
The women in cotton gowns of sober colors, now and 
then one of faint pink; all wore the ribosa, and all 
had broad faces and Indian features. But the real 
Indian women were easily distinguished; shorter, with 
heavy masses of coarse black hair, and rather copper 
than yellow in color, they uniformly wore two strips 
of dark blue cloth, which were wrapped about them 
so as to reveal part of the bosom and leave the sturdy 


296 MEXICAN NOTES 


brown legs bare. Themen wore white shirts, pleated 
and starched before and behind, and worn outside the 
white cotton trousers, and of course the broad hat, 
usually of straw. These people, except the Indians, 
who came in from their little villages with a handful 
of vegetables or some tortillas to sell, are hybrids of 
various shades, with much of the Spanish courtesy 
and civility, but indolent in manner, and apparently 
perfectly satisfied in their ignorance and poverty. 
As good a specimen of a semi-tropical garden as 
one will see anywhere is that of Cortina Mendoza. 
It is an extensive fruit plantation, and is rather an 
orchard than a garden, though it resembles neither 
in our experience. It is a thicket of luxuriant and 
sweet-smelling and spicy vegetation, and one strays 
in its dark and damp a//ées in a tropical gloom, into 
which the sun penetrates in rifts and gleams. Water 
diverted from the river rushes through it in swift 
streams — pure water, the ever-pleasant moisture of 
which fills all the garden — and small conduits from 
the canals keep the whole surface water-soaked, ex- 
cept the elevated paths. Here grow in a wild tangle — 
bananas and plantains, thickly set along the streams 
as rushes by a meadow brook; the mango, the ma- 
mey, and papaya—all large trees; the orange, lemon, 
and the lime, and the coffee-plant. It is a wilderness 
of strange foliage, swinging vines, penetrating odors, 
and brilliant colors. Amid the dark leaves gleam the 
white blossoms of orange and lemon and their golden 
globes of fruit, the yellowing mangoes, and the red 
coffee-berries. Coming into this place of deep shade, 
dampness, and coolness, out of the hot and dusty 


CUAUTLA 297 


street, this fenced section of green foliage and bright 
fruit, one appreciates the passion the Orientals have 
for running water and shade. But it is all unkempt 
and untidy, and to the eye accustomed to neatness 
and orderly cultivation, this wild plantation is typical 
of the character of this civilization. 

It is the slack time of the year (February) for 
fruits in this region, and the few, like the chico pa- 
paya, that are ripening are flat and tasteless — indeed, 
the majority of tropical fruits are always insipid to 
our palates. But it is the time of the maturing of 
the coffee-berry. This plant requires abundant water 
and heat and shade. When not planted by water- 
ways in such a fruit forest as this, it is set out in ba- 
nana thickets, whose broad leaves protect it from the 
direct rays of the sun. The plant is a hardy shrub, 
with a stem from two to three inches in diameter, and 
growing ten or twelve feet high —a very respectable 
tree. From some of the young saplings I cut good 
walking-sticks. The berries grow on the slender 
branches, which droop under the weight like the 
willow: if you lift one, it is as heavy as if it were 
strung with beads of glass. When ripe, the berry is 
deep red in color, oval in form, and in size varying 
from that of a thorn-apple to a hazelnut. Inside the 
skin is a soft sweetish pulp, and this imbeds the two 
beans, which lie with the flat faces touching, and each 
further protected by a thin membrane. When the 
majority of the berries are red, they are stripped from 
the branches and spread upon mats to dry, and some- 
times upon the ground. Dried, the berries shrivel 
and become black, and they are then passed through 


298 MEXICAN NOTES 


a machine to separate the pulp from the berries. 
The beans, after further drying, are pounded in a 
wooden mortar to free them from the thin mem- 
brane. The bean, which is then of a faint green 
color, is ready for market; but it needs age before it 
is fit to be ground for coffee, and the older it is the 
better; in two years’ time it gets a good flavor. In 
this way of harvesting and curing of course the un- 
ripe and imperfect berries are included with the good, 
and the product is inferior. While drying, if the berry 
gets wet from the dew or a chance shower, its flavor 
is impaired ; and when it is spread on earth floors to 
dry, I fancy it gets an earthy taste. The Mexican 
coffee, which with proper care is as delicious as any in 
the world, not excelled for richness and fineness of 
flavor by the Arabian, is as a rule rudely prepared. 
It will come into great popularity under more scien- 
tific handling. The product, which is large, is nearly 
all consumed at home, for the Mexicans are great 
coffee-drinkers ; but with its soil and climate there 
is no reason why Mexico cannot grow coffee for all 
the Western world. 

There is a great mystery about the varieties and 
grades of coffee — Java, Old Java, Mocha, Rio, ete. 
It is my opinion, from what I saw of the growth and 
preparation in Mexico, that the same plant produces 
in appearance all these varieties — though I do not 
mean to say that there is not a difference in flavor in 
the coffee-bean grown in Brazil, Mexico, the Sand- 
wich Islands, and Arabia. A considerable proportion 
of the Mexican coffee is grown from the Arabian or 
Mocha bean. The Mocha, as we know it in Europe 


CUAUTLA 299 


or in this country, is a small round berry, not flat- 
tened on one side, but creased. Each berry contains 
only one bean. Now all the coffee-plants that I saw 
in Mexico bear berries with one bean and with two 
beans; on very old plants there are more single-bean 
berries than on the young plants, and single-bean 
berries grow on the ends of the branches. There is a 
famous variety of coffee in Mexico called the Colima, 
said to be from the Mocha berry. I have no doubt 
that it is. But coffee resembling the Colima bean 
in appearance and flavor is produced elsewhere in 
Mexico, and is merely a matter of selection. I saw it 
at Uruapan in the west, and at Coatepec on the east 
coast. Pick out from the beans of any field all the 
small round ones, and you have Mocha; then select 
the fair, well-grown flat beans, and you have a good 
quality of Java; the refuse, broken and imperfectly 
ripened beans, you can send to market under any 
name you please. 

I suppose that the low repute the Mexican coffee 
of commerce has had is owing to the fact that it has 
been thrown into the market green and without selec- 
tion. Its cultivation and handling are usually very 
primitive. Ripe and unripe berries are stripped from 
the stalk; in drying on mats or the ground it is 
likely to acquire foreign flavors, and no care is taken 
to reject the imperfect beans. Careful growers, for- 
eigners, are beginning to use more scientific processes. 
They will pick or buy none but the red, perfectly 
ripe, berries. These are immediately put through the 
machines for removing the pulp. The beans are then 
dried on frames in ovens with low artificial heat, and 


300 MEXICAN NOTES 


the grains are carefully picked over before they are 
sacked. The natives say that the coffee gains a desir- 
able flavor by being dried in the sweet pulp. All the 
Mexican coffee, of sufficient age, that I tasted, has a 
delicious flavor, but it is often spoiled in its prepara- 
tion for the table. It iscommonly burned too much. 
Ground to a fine powder, and placed in a vessel with a 
fine sieve bottom, water is poured on, and the fluid 
drips through slowly, drop by drop, requiring hours 
to collect a small cup of liquor. This 1s very strong, 
and black as ink. It is the very essence or extract 
of coffee, and a tablespoonful of it is enough when 
added to hot milk to make a large cup of coffee. 
The traveler will do well to procure a bottle of this 
extract in order to strengthen his hotel coffee. 

We spent a week at Cuautla, and might have stayed 
there months, as many tourists and invalids do, and 
not have tired of its easy-going, picturesque life. We 
wander along one of the dusty lanes, vine-embowered, 
mount some uneven stone steps, and through a door 
in the wall enter, not a house, but a garden. Yet it 
is a house, and we are in the midst of domestic life. 
There is a pool of water, perhaps a running stream; _ 
large fruit-trees cast a dense shade; splendid olean- 
ders are in flower ; the coffee-berries are ripening red ; 
the great plantain leaves, whipped to strings by the 
wind, rustle in the breeze. Children, half-naked, are 
playing about, racing after the donkey or chasing each 
other in the leafy a//ées. Somber-looking men lounge 
about the huts in a perpetual siesta. Some of the huts 
are of adobe, open in front, with an earth floor. By 
the entrance, sitting on the ground, a woman is grind- 


CUAUTLA 301 


ing corn on a stone and baking tortillas. Always 
one hears in all these houses and gardens, at all hours 
of the day, the soft pat-patting of the tortilla cakes. 
Very likely the hut is of cane, a mere shelter from 
the sun and dew, and several of them grouped to- 
gether make the different rooms of the house; or it 
may be a more pretentious dwelling, round in form, 
the walls of cane, and the conical roof heavily thatched 
with brown grass. Perhaps there is a palm-tree near, 
and, with the bananas, the picture is exactly that of 
a Central African hut with its surroundings. The 
whole family, allits branches, with swarms of children, 
live in this garden, eating its fruits, sucking cane- 
stalks, and procuring, I know not how, the one indis- 
pensable thing — maize to make the tortillas. In 
this fashion live a considerable proportion of the pop- 
ulation of Mexico. How long will it be before they 
will care anything for politics or literature, and feel 
the restlessness of modern life? Very oriental all 
this — the thatched, conical huts, the luxuriant vege- 
tation, the dark, lazy people. 

Cuautla has some reputation for its sulphur baths, 
to which rheumatic and other invalids resort occa- 
sionally. We drove one morning in the only vehicle 
the place possesses—a rumbling, rickety carriage 
—out across the river bridge, and over a broken 
country, mostly a brown barren waste of land, with 
dried-up aromatic shrubs and coarse herbage, a mile 
and a half to the baths. Beyond the bridge is a collec- 
tion of huts and a shanty of entertainment, to which 
the lower orders resort for dancing and reveling. In 
a little rocky valley flows a strongly alkaline, clear 


302 MEXICAN NOTES 


stream, smelling of sulphur, and where it falls into a 
couple of basins in the rock the bathers were assem- 
bled. The pools are of greenish hue, and clear as 
crystal. The bathing is delicious, but the arrange- 
ments for it are very primitive. The pools were 
occupied by men, women, and children, and others 
were undressing and dressing on the margin. Shelter 
there was none, except an angle in the rocky wall 
and a couple of little cane huts. After waiting a long 
time until the women and children were withdrawn, 
I secured the angle in the rock, and succeeded in 
getting a dip in the crystal brook; but none too 
soon, for fresh company continually arrived. I men- 
tion this because it is a custom of the country, and 
the Mexicans do not mind this promiscuous bathing, 
though I believe they are as modest in fact as many 
of the bathers along our Atlantic coast. Strolling 
down the stream after the bath, I made the acquaint- 
ance of a Mexican family out for a holiday. They 
had bathed, and were now building a fire under a 
spreading sycamore to cook their midday meal, and 
enjoy an afternoon siesta. There was the vigorous _ 
mother, three or four young girls, prettier than 
Mexican young women usually are, and half a dozen 
small children. The whole party were full of merri- 
ment and good-nature, did not seem to regard the 
presence of a stranger as an intrusion, pressed upon 
me the hospitality of their unappetizing-looking 
‘messes,’ and were friendly and cordial and simple, 
and as little self-conscious as if I had been a native. 
The country all about was a broken dry plain, with 
strange, fantastic flowering plants, a few cacti, and 


CUAUTLA 303 


no grass. But the air was delicious, and the sky blue 
and cloudless. 

The Cuautla Valley is a vast sugar plantation, 
most of it the property of one man, Cortina Men- 
doza, a wealthy Mexican, reputed to be worth six 
millions of dollars, and the builder and chief owner 
of the Morelos Railway. His large hacienda and 
sugar factory are a few miles down the valley, and 
we reached them by a branch railway running through 
the cane-fields. The whole region is perfectly irri- 
gated. Cane matures in this country and blossoms 
as it never does in the short Louisiana season. We 
passed fields in all stages of growth — wet ground 
just set with new sprouts, stubble fields springing 
up anew, fields with green blades like young maize, 
fields nearly matured, with the red, sturdy stalks, 
and fields where the cutters were at work. The 
richness of the cane is judged not only by the size 
of the stalks, but by the length of the joints. The 
mature cane here was exceedingly rich in sugar. 

The hacienda is a vast establishment, a pile of 
buildings — dwelling-house, factory, sheds, stables, 
all together, the whole inclosed by a high wall, with 
cannon mounted at intervals. When the country was 
disturbed, this defensive preparation was needed by 
all the haciendas, which had to guard against attacks 
by brigands and chance plunderers. This 1s said to 
be the largest sugar hacienda in Mexico. I do not 
know the number of acres of cane under cultivation; 
it is about two thousand; but the owner employs 
600 men in the mill, and 2500 altogether on his 
vast estate. He has imported and set up improved 


304 MEXICAN NOTES 


machinery to the value, it is said, of half a million 
dollars. The cane 1s maturing all the time, winter as 
well as summer, and the grinding goes on every day 
in the year. The sugar, which has one of the requi- 
sites of good sugar, great sweetness, is brown in color, 
and cast into conical loaves of twenty-five pounds 
each, the reported net profit to the owner on each 
loaf being one dollar. The Mexicans consume a 
great deal of sugar, probably nearly all they produce; 
and they say that they prefer the dark because it is 
sweeter than the white and the refined, and purer. 
Within the walls the scene was a very animated 
one. The area was strewn with crushed cane-stalks. 
Carts loaded with fresh cane, carts loaded with the 
crushed stalks, were constantly arriving and depart- 
ing; half-naked men, their dark bodies shining with 
perspiration, dragged the cane from the carts, bound 
it for the swinging derricks that carried it to the 
crushers, or piled the vehicles with the refuse. Every- 
body was in a hurry; the boys lashed the mules and 
shouted, and the incessant whirring of the mill ma- 
chinery seemed to communicate its energy to the 
whole plantation. The crusher was always revolving; © 
the stream of sweet sap was always pouring from 
its wheels into the channel to the boiling-vats; the 
boilers were always steaming; in sticky, molasses- 
saturated rooms the centrifugals were always whirl- 
ing; in long chambers men_ passed to and fro 
bearing the melted sugar and pouring it into the 
molds; in great drying-rooms stood rows on rows 
of sugar-loaves; and in the shipping-house all was 


bustle and activity. We groped about in the half- 


GUAUTES 305 


dark caverns and recesses of this vast establishment, 
slipping on the sticky floors, sprinkled by the cen- 
trifugals, up-stairs and down, until we were stunned 
by the noise and saturated with sweetness. Floors, 
walls, machinery, the ground — everything was plas- 
tered with sugar. I thought that if the premises 
_ were “cleaned up,” as gold-mills are, sugar enough 
would be “ tried out” to supply Cuautla for a year. 

The center of all this life and whirl was one man; 
his presence it was that made the mule carts race 
through the fields, the men shout and hurry in the 
yards, the wheels grind, the vats run, and the sugar 
take form. In a high, broad, dirty, recessed gallery, 
above the yard, and attached to the main factory, sits 
Cortina Mendoza, a giant of a man, long past the age 
of sixty, in a light summer suit, his ample forehead 
shaded by a broad straw hat, black, keen eyes glow- 
ing through his spectacles. Before him is a plain deal 
table, with an inkstand and a few papers. About him 
are dogs, servants, children, messengers coming and 
going, swarms of dark-skinned, half-clad heathen, 
amid the whir of the machinery and the braying of 
donkeys. This is his office. From this platform he 
overlooks the whole moving panorama. Here he sits, 
hour after hour, day after day, a man taciturn, morose 
in appearance, dispatching all business with a few 
curt words. He stops a minute in his work to greet 
us civilly, details an attendant to show us the mill, 
and asks afterward what he can do for us; even rises 
when we depart, and regrets that he has not more 
time for hospitality. There he sits, reading and an- 
swering his correspondence, receiving hourly reports 

20 


306 MEXICAN NOTES 


from every part of his plantation, from each section 
of his works. He knows every hour just how much 
cane is brought in, what rate of sugar it is yielding, 
exactly the day’s product, how many pounds have 
been made, how much shipped. The premises swarm 
with flies; attracted by the sweets; they pervade the 
place, settling in black masses or darkening the air. 
It is an Egyptian plague. They literally cover the 
stalwart proprietor as he sits at his deal table. 

Cortina Mendoza is a widower. Years ago he lost 
his lovely and beloved wife, and the story is, he has 
since that bereavement devoted himself exclusively 
with a grim determination to his sugar hacienda. I 
was told that he is actually alone in the world. Of 
society certainly he can have little in that mongrel 
crew among whom his life is passed. He is very rich, 
as I said; he has a fine house luxuriously furnished 
in Mexico. Seldom, if ever, does he visit it; seldom 
does he seek other society than that of his laborers 
and dependents. It is a hot place, that recess, hot 
even in February. But there sits, day after day, year 
in and year out, surrounded by swarms of steaming, — 
half-naked servants, donkeys, and dogs, one of the’ 
richest men in Mexico, covered with flies ! 

The capacity of this country for sugar-growing 
seems to me enormous. How can it be otherwise in 
regions where the soil is fertile, as it is 1n all the val- 
leys, upland or lowland, where water is abundant for 
irrigation, where frost never comes, and the cane ma- 
tures for grinding every day in the year, and where 
labor is still cheap? There would seem to be no limit 
to its production, except the capital that is put into 


GUAUT ES 307 


it. But notwithstanding the present cheapness of 
labor, —from twelve cents to twenty-five cents a day, 
— Mexico, in order, with its cane sugar, to compete 
in the markets of the world with the beet sugar, needs 
capital for labor-saving machinery and improved pro- 
cesses. And it is not easy to get that capital. There 
are very few Mexicans who have the energy or the 
ability to handle it if they had it. And there is the 
smallest encouragement for foreigners to go there. 
The law protects them in their rights just about in 
proportion to their ability to buy that protection from 
judges and the political officials. Every sort of hin- 
drance is put upon business and commerce. There 
are heavy import duties, heavy export duties, stamp 
duties, octroi duties, duties between states. All this 
tax might be borne if it were steady and fixed at dif- 
ferent ports and places of entry, and if the taxes and 
customs were honestly levied and paid into the trea- 
sury. But they are not. The state of things existing 
in Egypt years ago obtains now in Mexico. A great 
proportion, perhaps the larger part, of the tax and 
custom dues goes into the pockets of the officials, 
and not into the treasury of the government. If the 
taxes laid and wrung from natives and foreigners 
went into the treasury, Mexico would be out of debt 
and financially prosperous. I think no one can deny 
this. The officials all get rich, the natives are kept 
poor, and the foreigners live in uncertainty. There 
is no uniformity in the official plundering. Importers 
of goods prefer to bring them in by the Central Rail- 
way rather than by Vera Cruz, because they can make 
better terms with the inland officials. I heard the 


308 MEXICAN NOTES 


story of an English ship captain who brings cargoes 
to the west coast, which I have reason to believe is 
true. When he reaches a western port, he anchors, and 
lands in his smal] boat and ascertains what terms he 
can make at the custom-house. If they are unsatis- 
factory, he sails to another port, and then to another; 
and he finally takes his goods ashore at the port 
where he can make the best terms with the customs 
officials. 

In order to encourage mining and other industries 
the government admits certain machinery free of 
duty. That is the law. But a foreigner seldom gets 
in any machinery without paying heavily on it, some- 
times three or four hundred per cent. on its cost. It 
takes a good deal of money to convince the officials 
that it is machinery. If it is an engine, it of course 
comes in pieces. How can the officials tell that it is 
an engine? If it isa bar of steel, how can the officials 
tell that it is for a drill? An American miner who 
imported tubes to replace those worn out in his 
boiler had to pay six hundred dollars for what in the 
States cost him less than sixty dollars. A man on 
the line of the Central road waited weeks to get a 
carboy of sulphuric acid through the hands of the 
various officials. Its cost in El Paso was three dol- 
lars. He paid twenty-four dollars duties on it. When 
he opened the carboy it was empty! Two invoices 
have to be made out, one in English and one in 
Spanish. If any article is misspelled, not spelled 
exactly in the invoice as it is in the free schedule, it 
must pay duty. Of course it is the officials, and not 
the government, who profit by this clerical error. 


CUAUTLA 309 


These are some of the hundreds of annoyances and 
hindrances in the way of doing business in Mexico. 
A foreigner must reckon, and does reckon, as a part 
of his necessary outlay, money to keep on the right 
side of the officials. 

Of course the root of all these evils is not in the 
fact that Mexico is poor, and needs to squeeze every- 
body for a revenue, but in the fact that the govern- 
ment is purely a personal one, and run for the benefit, 
not of the people, but of the officials. And before 
this can be otherwise there has to be created in 
Mexico a public; and this will be a long and slow 
process with a mongrel people civilized on the Egyp- 
tian basis of mutual distrust. 


Ifl 


COATEPEC 


NE inconvenience in traveling in Mexico is 

the bulky silver money with which the tour- 

ist must load himself down. Whenever I 
moved any distance from the capital, I carried a 
shot-bag full of the cart-wheel dollars, which were 
worth from nineteen to twenty-four cents less than 
United States money. The Bank of London and - 
South America, in Mexico, issues notes which are 
current in the States of Mexico and Michoacan, and 
perhaps elsewhere, but not good in the State of Vera 
Cruz, although the bank officials assured us they 
were. Consequently we have this anomaly, which is 
characteristic of Mexico, that while the railway com- 
pany of the Mexican Railway received these notes 
for fare at the Mexican end, they would not take 
them at all at the Vera Cruz terminus. The first- 
class fare, in an exceedingly roomy and comfortable 
coach, — 263 miles in about fourteen hours, — was 
sixteen dollars. In the train was a carload of soldiers 
in white cotton uniform —a precaution against rob- 
bers which the government takes on no other railway 
in the republic. At every station, also, a guard of 
half a dozen soldiers appeared on the platform, 
saluting as the train drew up. On the higher table- 
land these guards were mounted, and in their fine 


COATEPEC 311 


appearance reminded one of the famous Guardias 
Civiles of Spain. 

The morning (February 26) was bright and a little 
cool; the twin snow peaks sparkled crystal white in 
the clear air. The road runs in the Mexican basin 
north of Lake Tezcoco, through a region highly cul- 
tivated, bristling with cacti of grotesque forms, the 
fields marked by lines of the maguey plant, frequent 
adobe villages, with clusters of the stately organ cactus 
grouped about the huts, the whole plain full of the 
stir of agricultural life and movement. As we rose 
among the hills the clean maguey plant was more 
abundant, and at the first station on the plateau we 
were at the chief shipping-point of the region for 
pulque. Scores of casks of it were waiting shipment. 
It is from this station that a considerable portion of 
the thousands and thousands of gallons daily needed 
to supply the wants of the city are sent. At this sta- 
tion descended several passengers — English, Amert- 
can, and Mexican gentlemen, who had business at 
some hacienda, or were out for a day’s shooting. 
Among them was a tall, bulky Mexican, with gigantic 
frame anda baby face, who would have excited admi- 
ration anywhere. He wore an enormous hat, hung 
with at least a hundred dollars’ worth of silver bul- 
lion, was armed with a revolver and a rifle, and had 
down each seam of his trousers a row of skulls and 
cross-bones in solid silver, each skull as big as a 
dollar. Everybody enjoyed the appearance of this 
splendid person, and no one more than he himself. 

At an elevation of some eight thousand feet we 
were running over a nearly level tableland, with 


gg MEXICAN NOTES 


high mountains in the distance — a plain brown and 
cheerless. A strong wind was blowing, and the dust 
was intolerable. Soon the country became more 
broken, but with the same aspect of winter barren- 
ness, without a tree to relieve the prospect, and the 
landscape frightfully gashed and gullied by the heavy 
summer rains. After we passed Apizaco, whence a 
road branches off to Puebla, the long noble moun- 
tain of Malintzi came in view on the south, and 
before we reached San Andreas the mass of Orizaba 
loomed up in the east over the dusty plain, — two 
peaks, as seen from this point, the higher a long 
ragged mass, ever snow-clad, rising in majestic 
beauty between six and seven thousand feet above the 
enormous elevation of this vast wind-swept plateau. 
From the uplands, from the coast, from the tropical 
valleys, from all points of view, this seems to be the 
prince of Mexican mountains. 

At Esperanza we stopped for midday breakfast 
—an excellent, civilized, well-served meal. Here 
the peach-trees were in full bloom. A little farther 
on, at Boca del Monte, the road begins its rapid 
descent to the coast level. I doubt if any other rail- 
way in the world, certainly none in Europe or North 
America, offers so many surprises to the traveler, 
or scenery so startling and noble in character. At 
Boca del Monte he looks down upon a wilderness 
of mountains. He is on a wide sterile plain in the 
temperate zone; in two hours he will be hurled 
down in the warmth and luxuriance of a tropical 
vegetation. Below are mountains, precipices, deep 
valleys, clouds, mists, which part occasionally and 


COATEPEC Gai 
show green fields through the rifts. The descent 


seems impossible. But the train moves on in long 
curves round the edge of the mountain, doubling 
on itself, piercing a promontory, clinging to the 
edge of a precipice, leaping bya slender bridge from 
one hill to another, running backward and forward, 
but always down, down, until the mountains, nobly 
wooded, begin to rise above us; at one point we 
look sheer down the precipice upon the plain and 
town of Maltrato, 2000 feet below. At Bota, a pic- 
turesque station clinging to the precipice, there are 
crowds of women and maidens offering fruits of all 
sorts, and pulque, which is not good lower down. 
Before we know it we have dropped down to Mal- 
trato, a little interval green with grain and trees, 
hemmed in completely by steep mountains, a thriv- 
ing town with many spires, 1691 meters above the 
sea. 

From this little mountain plain we drop to a lower 
level, through a wonderful defile, narrow, rocky, with 
a clear impetuous stream at the bottom; and as we 
go down, there is not so much the sensation of sink- 
ing as that the mountains are rising around us. The 
level to which we come is the fertile plain of Ori- 
zaba, 1227 meters above the sea. In the midst of it 
stands the handsome and highly civilized city of 
Orizaba — city and valley shut out from the world 
by immense mountain walls. On this plain we ran 
into the clouds that we had seen from the heights 
above, and passing it, we went swiftly down a broad 
valley, all grain, grass, turf even, pasture-lands, 
meadows, luxuriant cane-fields, well watered and 


314 MEXICAN NOTES 


vernal, not unlike the valley of the Connecticut, 
except for the yucca and cacti, and strange plants and 
flowers. From this valley we dropped again down a 
narrow, rocky defile, passed through a tunnel, and 
came into a lower valley that leads to the city of 
Cordova. The whole of Mexico has this terrace 
character. It had rained a little at Cordova, and the 
vegetation showed a climate different from that on — 
the west of the great mountain chain. All the east 
side of the mountains is liable in winter to “ north- 
ers,” which bring lower temperature, clouds, and 
occasional rain, so that the whole State of Vera 
Cruz is less brown and sere in the dry season than 
the western uplands. At Cordova we were in a 
semi-tropical region, 827 meters (about 2600 Eng- 
lish feet) above the sea; we had dropped from winter 
into summer. On either side spread acres and acres 
of bananas, wide coffee plantations, agaves and 
pines, and brilliant flowering shrubs ; one, the tuli- 
pan, as large as a peach-tree, with splendid scarlet 
flowers like the tiger-lily. At the station, pineapples 
and oranges in heaps were for sale. As we went 
down through the foothills, passing a finer gorge’ 
than any above, with a lovely waterfall, the foliage 
became more and more tropical; big-leaved plants 
grew rank along the way, and enormous convolvuli 
adorned the trees and hedges. 

It was eight o’clock when we reached the abso- 
lute sea-level and Vera Cruz, and were driven in a 
rickety carriage through a broad business street of 
two-story houses to the Hotel Diligencia, on the 
little plaza. The hotel, over the first story of shops, 


COATEPEC 315 


is entered by broad stone stairs in the inner court, 
and is itself an open hall abouta court, the hall serv- 
ing as assembly-room and dining-room, the chambers 
opening out from it. All the floors are brick. The 
rooms on the plaza front have balconies, and are 
primitively furnished, though comfortable enough, 
the beds being well protected by mosquito-netting. 
Rooms, furniture, attendance, all bespeak the negli- 
gence of a warm climate; it is, in short, a thoroughly 
Spanish-Mexican inn, and the table sustains its repu- 
tation. 

Vera Cruz has a bad repute, and I suppose that, 
travestying the remark about Naples, I am expected 
to exclaim, “Smell Vera Cruz and die!” But I 
found the little city of ten thousand people rather 
agreeable. It is, to be sure, when you are in it, an 
uninteresting city of two-story buildings of coral 
limestone, right-angled streets, perfectly flat, built 
on marshy ground, and the gutters are open and 
unsightly. The sidewalk crossings of the principal 
streets are peculiar ; they are small bridges thrown 
over the gutters, but instead of being on the line of 
the sidewalk, they are set back in the side street, so 
that the heedless pedestrian is likely at any moment 
to step into the ditch. But the houses are solid ; 
many of them have pretty courts, and arcaded fronts 
are frequent. Shabby or elegant, it is thoroughly 
foreign and picturesque. By daylight it is shabby. 
The most pleasing view of the town is from the sea, 
with the castle of San Juan de Ulua in the fore- 
ground, and the water-line of arcaded buildings, with 
the towers and cathedral dome, behind. But the view 


316 MEXICAN NOTES 


of the blue gulf, with its islands and sails, from the 
long pier, is as lovely as that from almost any Medi- 
terranean port. The air was delicious, mild and yet 
not enervating. With the sea on one side and the 
mountains so near on the other, Vera Cruz ought, 
with a little engineering skill for drainage, to be per- 
fectly healthful. But no summer passes without spo- 
radic cases of yellow fever, and once in three years 
it is epidemic. To my senses the climate was most 
agreeable, and it was luxury to breathe the air after 
the thin atmosphere of the tableland. Indeed, I met 
many foreigners who were charmed with Vera Cruz. 
I know Americans who go there without fear in the 
summer, for the bathing, and find their stay most 
agreeable. 

The scene on the plaza, which was brilliantly 
illuminated with both gas and electric lights, was 
exceedingly gay. The strong light brought into 
relief the cathedral dome and spires, the arcaded 
shops, and masses of shrubs and flowering plants, 
and the swaying arms of the whispering palms. It 
is thronged with promenaders, with loafers, with chil- | 
dren, with ladies in fashionable attire, with officers 
and soldiers and servants —a thoroughly democratic 
assembly. The cool evening is the time for enjoy- 
ment and recreation, and everybody was out-of- 
doors; ladies in light muslins, armed only with the 
fan, went round and round arm in arm, chatting and 
laughing, never the sexes mingling in the treadmill 
of the promenade, except in case of family groups ; 
children, small girls and boys too young to be out 
without their nurses, were jumping the rope and 


COATEPEC 317 


playing other noisy games in a part of the plaza till 
after nine o’clock ; men of the lower orders lounged 
about clad only in under-shirts and drawers, or their 
cotton trousers that had the effect of drawers ; the 
clerks in the shops, dressed in the same summer 
style, and invariably with a cigar in the mouth, 
waited on their customers in languid indifference. 
All the wine shops and saloons were open and thriv- 
ing; small tables incumbered the sidewalks, where 
the citizens sat in cool costume sipping mild pota- 
tions. Everybody had the free and easy air which 
is always begotten by confidence in steady good 
weather. The prominent impression, however, was 
of the mixed, mongrel race, a population lacking 
stamina, with Central American morals and Cuban 
inertia. 

We were called at four o’clock of a foggy morn- 
ing for the five-o’clock train to Jalapa. This jour- 
ney is unique, for the whole distance of seventy miles 
is by tramway, except the first sixteen, to Paso de 
San Juan, on the Mexican Railway. After a cup of 
coffee in a cheap café by the station, I went to buy 
my tickets. The agent peremptorily refused to take 
the Bank of London notes, even at a discount. 
My servant expostulated with all the officials of the 
place. We could not think of remaining over in 
Vera Cruz another whole day. No exchange shops 
were open. Our money was perfectly good. Why 
then subject travelers tosuch annoyance? But it was 
no use to remonstrate, the officials were more than 
inexorable, they were indifferent; the train was just 
starting. I happened to remember that I had in my 


318 MEXICAN NOTES 


pocket a note of introduction to Colonel Thrailkill, 
the superintendent of the Jalapa road. I produced 
it. No one could read it, and, for all they knew, it 
might have been my hotel bill; but it sufficed. With 
a good-nature as unreasonable as the former indif- 
ference, we were told to go aboard, and pay when we 
found the superintendent. 

At San Juan the tram-cars were waiting, two, a 
first and a second-class, each with four mules. Our 
car was very comfortable, roomy, with broad leather- 
cushioned seats, open at the sides, with a canopy to 
keep off the sun. At the signal the mules were let 
go, and they started on a run; they had their ten 
miles to make, and seemed bound to do it at a spurt. 
The country was at first level, the track good, but 
the car swung and swerved at the rapid pace, and 
our motion created a strong breeze; the fog was lift- 
ing, disclosing a luxuriant vegetation, palms, cacti, 
and large sycamore-trees, in form and color like 
our buttonball. The buzzards were still roosting in 
the trees, but the convolvuli were opening, and new 
bird-notes were heard in the thickets. Everything 
was strange, exotic. Every moment a new object for — 
exclamation. A handsome, brilliant bird, as large as 
a hawk, with a long tail, darted from tree to tree with 
a harsh cry; it was the papey, a fleshless, useless bird ; 
equally valueless was the coracoracaa, a smaller bird, 
like the pheasant; there was also the calandra, bril- 
liant yellow; but most interesting of all, the prima 
vera, a brown warbler, the bird of spring. Here and 
there, by the track, the Te del campo, a large lizard, 
hastened to get out of the way. 


COATEPEC 319 


For we went thundering on, regardless of beast 
or bird. The mules have more vim and malicious 
energy than the steam-engine. Here and there a 
poor plantation was passed, and the house was invari- 
ably an openwork structure of cane, with a heavily 
thatched roof. 

This is the old national road, the route of General 
Scott to the city of Mexico, following most of the 
way the ancient Spanish highway, often paved, and 
with substantial bridges. The old Spaniards had 
energy, and built roads and churches; the Mexicans 
have let them decay. 

When the fog cleared, the sky was deep blue, and 
the air delicious. The peak of Orizaba appeared a 
white mass in the blue horizon, the base hidden by 
mountain ranges. The Puente Nacional is a fine, 
picturesque Spanish bridge, with parapets, and here 
is a collection of mean adobe houses, and near them, 
in a thicket of cacti, the white palace of Santa Anna, 
falling to ruins. Here he had a considerable planta- 
tion. We also passed in sight of the battlefield of 
Cerro Gordo —a cheerless region. The villages on 
the line are much alike, — usually one shabby street, 
—with a mongrel population. The most curious 
shops are the butchers’; the meat hangs before the 
door in long strips, is usually black, and sold by the 
foot. At Rinconada, where we met the down train, 
we stopped an hour for breakfast — a very palatable 
meal, with Mexican dishes, that are not bad if you 
can make up your mind to them, especially the gar- 
nachas, compounded of maize, chopped meat, cheese, 
chiles, tomatoes, and onions. It is as good as the 


320 MEXICAN NOTES 


famous enchilada, which is chopped meat, raisins, 
almonds, and other condiments rolled inside of a 
tortilla. The passengers whom we met were covered 
with dust, and we were in the same state. The road 
had begun to ascend rapidly, and there were long 
stretches where we dragged slowly up the grades, in 
sun and dust, with only occasionally the exhilaration 
of a dash down-hill. The views became finer — 
great sweeps of rounded hills, with few trees, and 
mountains in the distance. Occasionally a hacienda 
was seen perched on a hill, or the square tower of an 
old church, but for the most part the country was 
monotonous in its winter barrenness. Still it was all 
novel, and our interest in the drive scarcely flagged 
when, at six o’clock, we galloped through the paved 
streets of Jalapa, and knew that we were 4000 feet 
above the sea. 

Jalapa, the capital of the State of Vera Cruz, and 
the residence of the governor, is an exceedingly inter- 
esting and pretty city, well paved, solidly built, pictur- 
esquely situated on the foothills, and surrounded 
by giant mountains. The region is fertile, and it is 
just the right elevation for a delightful summer 
and winter climate. The views from the neighboring 
hills of the town, the uneven landscape, the semi-trop- 
ical vegetation, the snow mountains, are of almost 
incomparable beauty. The town itself, though the 
streets are winding, and many of them steep, and 
the houses have no great architectural pretensions, 
is clean, thrifty, and has a highly civilized aspect. 
There are many fine, substantial residences, which 
make no exterior show, but have lovely interior 


COATEPEC 321 


courts adorned with flowers, and vocal with foun- 
tains and the singing of birds. The rich interiors are 
evidence of wealth and refinement. The cathedral, a 
noble, handsome building, stands on a pretty plaza, 
but its situation on the side of a slope gives a unique 
effect to the interior. The floor, which is beautifully 
paved with tiles, slopes up to the altar at a decided 
angle, so that the worshiper, in advancing to the 
apse, has a sense of “going up to the house of 
the Lord.” From the end of the street on which 
it stands, and indeed from other streets, there are 
charming vistas of the country, a country tropical 
in its foliage, and always with the background of 
purple mountains and snow domes. The noble Ori- 
zaba is the chief attraction, but the long range of the 
nearer Cofre de Perote, which bars the way to the 
west, tawny and full of color, may be fairly termed 
magnificent. Its sharp ridges, 14,000 feet above the 
sea, are just low enough to escape the crown of per- 
petual snow. 

The great market-place on Sunday morning pre- 
sented a very animated spectacle. In the center of 
the square, surrounded by arcaded buildings, is the 
market itself, a structure of pillars and roof; but the 
traffic was not confined to it. The whole plaza and 
all the surrounding corridors and the side streets 
were covered with goods, merchandise of all sorts, 
fruits, vegetables, pottery, and swarmed with buyers 
and sellers. This is the day when the Indians from 
the mountain villages come in with their grain, tor- 
tillas, preserves, basket-work, pottery, and “ truck,” 


and we saw here specimens of three or four tribes 
2I 


322 MEXICAN NOTES 


who adhere to their own dialects, and speak Spanish 
not at all, or very reluctantly. The Mexican men 
wore usually white trousers and white shirts, with 
perhaps a gay serape flung over the shoulders. The 
women, in plain frocks and the invariable ribosas, 
add little in the way of color to the scene, and almost 
nothing of beauty. They are not pretty ; but so pro- 
ductive! Children swarmed. And the sad pity of it, 
to think that they will all grow up and become Mex- , 
icans! There was a circus in town, and the mem- 
bers of it were making an advertising parade, riding 
about through the dense crowd, bespangled, brazen 
women and harlequin men, greeted with shouts and 
laughter. There is certainly nothing gloomy about 
Sunday in Jalapa. 

We breakfasted with Colonel Thrailkill, the super- 
intendent of the Jalapa road. The table was set in a 
veranda opening upon a pretty garden. Our host is 
a bird-fancier ; but most residents in Mexico fall into 
this fancy, for in no other land are there birds of more 
delicious song and exquisite plumage. In shops, in 
house courts, in hotels, in bath-houses, everywhere, 
one hears the music of caged birds. Dozens of cages * 
hung about the veranda and in the garden, an un- 
rivaled aviary of color and song. There were many 
brilliant small birds, but the favorite for its song — 
indeed, the queen of all Mexican singing birds — is 
the clarin. This is a shapely brown bird, in size and 
form not unlike the hermit-thrush, but its long, liquid, 
full-throated note is more sweet and thrilling than any 
other bird-note I have ever heard; it is hardly a song 
ora tune, but a flood of melody, elevating, inspiring 


COATEPEC Kye: 


as the skylark, but with a touch of the tender melan- 
choly of the nightingale in the night. 

There was one of these birds filling the court with 
melody when I went to take a bath in Jalapa. Mex- 
ico has one evidence of civilization that some other 
civilized countries lack. In every city, in nearly every 
town, there are attractive bath-houses. However mean 
the town may be otherwise, the public bath-house is 
pretty sure to be neat and attractive, and is often 
highly ornamental and luxurious. There are bathing- 
places of various degrees of cost, some plunges and 
pools where the populace can take a dip for a tlaco 
(about a cent and a half), and others more exclusive, 
where the common charge for hot and cold water, 
linen, soap, rubbing fiber, and oil 1s twenty-five cents. 
There is an inner court, luxuriant and beautiful with 
flowers and tropical foliage, surrounded by galleries 
in two stories, in the arches of which stand hun- 
dreds of the red flower-pots of the country brilliant 
with gay flowers. A fountain splashes in the center, 
and caged birds, fluttering in the sunlight, sing, and 
add the element of gayety to the pretty scene. The 
bathing-rooms, opening on the gallery, are primi- 
tive, but clean; and if they were ruder than they 
are, the bather has so many senses gratified that in 
this respect at least he is willing to confess that the 
Mexicans excel us in civilization and refinement. At 
Cuautla I saw a substitute for the Turkish bath, used 
sometimes also by our northern Indians. This was 
a stone structure, somewhere in the shade of the 
house inclosure, in shape like a long, low oven, with 
an: opening in front large enough for a person to 


324 MEXICAN NOTES 


crawl in. In the interior are placed hot stones, water 
is poured upon these till the oven is full of steam, 
and then the patient crawls in, closes the aperture, 
and takes his steam bath. 

From Jalapa the tramway extends nine miles south- 
west to Coatepec, which lies 500 feet lower than the 
capital, and enjoys a somewhat warmer climate. I 
went down there and spent some days with American 
and English friends who are engaged in coffee-plant- 
ing and in the preparation of the berry for the mar- 
ket. Coatepec is a typical Mexican town of the bet- 
ter sort, where nobody is very rich and nobody very 
poor. It is quite withdrawn from the world and its 
excitements — has no newspapers, no news, no agi- 
tations. The houses are mostly of one story, the 
streets are broad, well paved, and clean, and the coun- 
try about is well cultivated. With the exception of 
the family with whom I stayed, and a Belgian who 
has lived there many years, I believe there are no 
foreigners. ‘‘ Society ”’ can hardly be said to exist, but 
a club had recently been formed; in the bare rooms 
it occupied there were neither newspapers, books, nor 
any of the common paraphernalia of club life. So— 
far as I could judge, the Mexicans here, who are of 
the ordinary yellow variety, have little intellectual 
life or ambition, or knowledge of the world. The 
chief occupation is coffee-raising ; all about the town 
are large and small plantations of it, intermingled 
with the banana and the plantain. The coffee-trees 
are seen in all the town gardens; and at this season, 
in the streets and courtyards, the coffee-berry spread 
on mats was everywhere seen drying in the sun. 


COA TEPEC 325 


The house where I stayed, perhaps the most com- 
modious in the place, is worth a line of description, as 
typical of the better sort in Mexico. On the street it 
has a solid two-story front, with windows of glass, 
and is built around three sides of a very pretty court, 
which has a fountain, tropical plants and flowers, and 
singing birds in cages. Most of the houses have no 
glass, and the window openings, which close with 
inner shutters, are protected with bars of iron or wood, 
Spanish fashion, and the inmates have the appear- 
ance of being imprisoned. A gallery runs round the 
inner second story of the house I speak of, and is a 
most agreeable lounging-place day and evening. Here 
are books, music, the latest English and American 
newspapers. In the sitting-room is a Steinway grand, 
which in this equable climate always keeps in tune. 
Every evening when there is music, there is an or- 
derly crowd in the street below. From this gallery 
is one of the most lovely prospects. One looks over 
the court and the garden beyond, over the huddled 
brown roofs of the town, the cathedral towers, the tall 
trees of the plaza with its arcaded buildings, over the 
rising nearest foothills and their semi-tropical vege- 
tation, to the vast ridge of the Cofre de Perote, purple 
against the sky. Almost every feature of the land- 
scape is Italian, and the view is wonderfully like that 
from the Villa Nardi in Sorrento of the gardens and 
amphitheater of hills. But in one respect it far sur- 
passes the famous Italian landscape. For there to 
the left rises in the blue sky the great dome of Ori- 
zaba, pure white, stainless, towering up like a cloud, 
its purity glowing in the rosy light of morning, or 


326 MEXICAN NOTES 


taking on a purple hue at evening. The place has 
altogether an air of repose, of stability, of softness, an 
indescribable charm. 

This region is a paradise for the naturalist as well 
as the sightseer. I could see, but cannot describe, 
hundreds of novel wild flowers and plants — plants 
aromatic, plants and vines with strange and brilliant 
blooms, tree-ferns, and all sorts of feathery and grace- 
ful growths. My friend had a collection of butterflies 
and moths dazzling to the eyes of a novice, but of 
still more interest to the student ; his explorations 
of the hills have discovered many species hitherto 
unknown to science. 

Not only the naturalist, but the ordinary traveler, 
would find much that is interesting in exploring 
these mountains. In their recesses are villages that 
retain all the simplicity of primitive communities. I 
have some coins from one of them, Las Vegas, 
which reveal this. The subsidiary coinage in Mexico 
is in a very bad way. Much of it is local, and all 
of it is worn and defaced beyond recognition. Yet 
when the government attempted some years ago to 
call it in and substitute something else, the popular — 
discontent was so great that it was obliged to desist. 
The commonest popular coin is the ¢/aco, usually a 
big round piece of copper worn perfectly smooth. 
Its current value is a little over a cent and a half. 
Two tlacos make a cuartilla; two cuartillas make a 
medio ; two medios make a rea/; and two reals make 
twenty-five cents. The inhabitants of Las Vegas, 
being short of the small circulating medium, manu- 
facture their own, which is taken and given in all 


COATEPEC 327 


purchases. One of the Las Vegas “coins” that I 
have is a small square piece of soap, stamped with 
the value. The others are a square and a circular 
block of wood, over an inch in diameter, rudely 
whittled out, but stamped with name and value. 
Each of these passes for a tlaco. This seems to be 
an ideal sort of money; any one can have as much 
as he can make, and it has two advantages, — the 
wood will last, and the soap will redeem itself in 
time. 

It is an unexciting life that one would lead at 
Coatepec amid all this natural beauty. Even the 
jail, which stands on one side of the plaza, has a 
friendly aspect. It is a two-story edifice, with pillars 
supporting the upper gallery. In the upper story is 
a rude hospital. The lower story consists of one 
long, obscure room, with a floor of earth, in which 
all the prisoners are huddled together. The guards 
pace the corridor outside, and watch the inmates 
through the grated windows. Prison reform has not 
yet reached Mexico. 

There is one person in Coatepec who has ideas 
and tastes above his fellows. This is an honest car- 
penter, who is the antiquarian of the region. In his 
little stone cottage, overrun and half hidden by 
vegetation, he has collected Indian relics, stone idols 
and images, a few manuscripts and books, and a 
great variety of natural curiosities. The house stands 
on the slope of a pure and pretty stream that runs 
through the village, and here he has laid out a gar- 
den that is unique. It is a miniature museum out- 
of-doors, planted with tropical shrubs and flowers, 


328 MEXICAN NOTES 


intersected with winding walks, along which stand 
Indian idols and fragments of antique sculpture, 
leading to quaint grottoes, paved and ‘set with old 
tiles, bits of glass, and odd pieces of plate. The 
whole effect is fantastic and curious. This carpenter 
is an artist as well as antiquarian. A little while be- 
fore my visit he had the misfortune to lose his third 
wife. A few days after, he brought to my friend a 
skull and cross-bones, “ life”’ size, beautifully carved 
in wood — perfect imitation of these emblems of 
mortality. The carving of these mementos was his 
grim way of taking consolation in his bereavement. 

The country about Coatepec might well detain 
the traveler for weeks in agreeable excursions. The 
only drawback to riding is that all the roads are 
paved with round stones —at least, all the roads con- 
necting the principal villages. This is no doubt 
necessary in the rainy season, but it makes rough 
traveling. We rode one day over the rolling land, 
up-hill and down, half a dozen miles to see the bar- 
ranca of Tecalo. This is one of the minor barrancas, 
but it gives a good idea of these peculiar formations. ,, 
A barranca is of the nature of a cafion; that is to 
- say, it is a deep gorge, abruptly sinking below the 
level of the surrounding country, and has a stream 
at the bottom. 

We had no sign of the barranca of Tecalo until 
we stood upon its brink, and looked down the 
rugged chasm a thousand feet. It is not a straight 
cut in the land, but winding, as if the stream had 
made it by slow process and irregular flowing, but 
its rocky sides are nearly perpendicular. We made 


COATEPEC 329 


our way by a zigzag path down one of the faces to 
the bottom, where we found a substantial bridge 
and a clear, rapid stream. Looking up the walls on 
either side we had a vision of wild and exquisite 
beauty. The sky was a narrow strip above. The 
walls of rock that shut us in were completely clad 
with vegetation, luxuriant, and wonderful in color. 
I know nothing to compare with it except the La- 
tomia of Syracuse, in Sicily. Every foot of the pre- 
cipices was covered with creepers, hanging vines, 
ferns exquisite in fineness, a mass of green and gray, 
in which gleamed flowers of scarlet and of a dozen 
bright hues, and here and there from ledges hung 
vegetable cables, ropes swinging freely in the air, 
with flowering plants at the end, like baskets let 
down. As we ascended from this bewildering vale 
of beauty, there was great Orizaba hanging like a 
thunder-head in the sky. 

Coatepec, Jalapa, all the eastern slope of the great 
‘mountains have a delightful winter climate, warmer 
than the Mexican tablelands by reason of the lower 
altitude, but, as I have said, not so arid, for the 
“northers”’ bring occasionally clouds and a damp 
atmosphere, which freshens the vegetation a little. 

The return down the tramway from Jalapa to Vera 
Cruz was more rapid than the ascent — three hours 
shorter in time, and exciting and exhilarating. Whirl- 
ing down this strange land in an open car, with the 
mules at a gallop, every mile offering some novel 
sight, is, I fancy, a unique experience in travel. It 
was half-past four when we came to Vera Cruz, and 
we had time before nightfall to satisfy all our curi- 


330 MEXICAN NOTES 


osity about the city. It cannot be said to improve 
much on acquaintance, but the sea view from the end 
of the long stone pier is very fine, with the old Castle, 
and the sailboats and steamers in the harbor. The 
town also is picturesque from this point, with its 
church domes and towers and the arcaded and bal- 
conied houses on the shore, painted in blue, red, yel- 
low, and green, all faded into harmonious tones. 
Again we were reminded of Italy. 

At sunset hundreds of buzzards came to roost on 
the cornices of the plaza buildings, and the great 
dome of the cathedral was literally black with them. 
Gas and electric light again blazed, and the ceaseless 
promenading and animation of street life began. Chil- 
dren swarm, ladies in light muslins come out to 
enjoy the night air, men in white, and as thinly clad 
as possible, lounge listlessly about. ‘he more we see 
of the people, the more inferior they seem — an easy- 
going, poor, mixed race. 

We were up at five for the train. The night had 
been hot; with the long windows open on the plaza 
and sea side, there was not a breath of air— even a 
sheet was a burden. Till late at night there was noise 
and gabble in the streets, bells were chiming, and the 
big bell of the cathedral booming the hours. In the 
early morning the streets were almost deserted, here 
and there a cargador in white, or a woman, too early 
or too late, shuffled along the pavement. The big 
buzzards on the cathedral dome were beginning to 
stir in the early light, birds were singing among the 
whispering palms of the plaza, and paroquets called 
and screamed after us. 


COATEPEC 331 


The road skirts the city and then runs straight to 
the foothills over a plain uninteresting except for the 
always picturesque palms. But at Cordova, a busy, 
pretty town among the mountains, and overlooked 
by Mount Orizaba, the vegetation is very rich, the 
air is sweet with orange blossoms, the foliage is dark, 
the red coffee-berries gleam in the banana planta- 
tions, the palm, the yucca, the cacti add to the trop- 
ical character of the picture, and brilliant flowers and 
rampant vines lighten and drape the landscape in 
color and grace. From here to Orizaba the scenery 
appeared more grand than in the descent, the moun- 
tains serrated, sharp peaks, blue and lovely in the 
distance, standing in a jumble, and the snow peak 
above them always wonderful. We drag up through 
the lovely gorge with the pretty waterfall, make the 
circle of the great loop in the road, cross a high 
bridge, pass through several tunnels, and are in the 
shut-in plain of Orizaba. No description can do jus- 
tice to this wonderful road. 

Orizaba, which is about four thousand feet above 
the sea, is a favorite winter resort, but it is too warm 
in summer for those accustomed to the air of the table- 
land. It is, however, a beneficial change for many 
from the very rare air of the city of Mexico. The city 
itself is very well built, has a big and varied market, 
and an alameda as fine as any in the republic, with 
splendid trees and charming a//ées, and is bounded on 
one side by a swift stream, which sweeps the base 
of a precipitous mountain wall. This situation adds 
nobility to its loveliness. From my window and 


balcony at the Hotel La Borda I looked up a clear, 


332 MEXICAN NOTES 


rapid stream in a green setting of foliage, with white 
houses and gardens beyond, a white spire, and a vast _ 
background of mountains, the shoulder of Orizaba 
visible, but not its snow. The snow peak is not in 
sight from the central part of the city itself. Orizaba 
is interesting for a few days’ sojourn, and pleasant 
excursions may be made from it into the hills and 
the lateral valleys, but it is too much shut in for my 
taste. 

It is a fairly enlightened and well-governed city, 
and has very good schools, where English is taught, 
after a fashion, and on which the attendance is, I 
believe, compulsory. While I was there, a German, 
whose knowledge of English was very limited, was 
holding, by the aid of the government, a normal 
school, to teach teachers how to teach English and 
German, and he had some eighty-five pupils, old and 
young, from the various towns in the State of Vera 
Cruz: 

In traveling here and elsewhere in Mexico, an 
American is struck with the little deference paid 
to women. No matter who is present, everybody 
smokes, at the table, in the cars, even those of the 
first-class, in the horse-cars, everywhere, — there is 
no escape from the smoke. But then, most of the 
Mexican women smoke also. 

It was now the sth of March, and signs of spring 
multiplied ; as we ascended the mountains the young 
foliage was almost as bright in hue as ours is in 
autumn. This drapery of color was very pleasing. 
We could imagine what Mexico would be in its 
renewed vegetation. The train moved slowly up 


COATEPEC 333 
the slopes, conquering the height foot by foot. The 


valleys deepened, the mountains sunk. When we 
’ reached the summit of Boca del Monte, it seemed as 
if we must have climbed to the top of the world. 
But lo! there in the sky was the white dome of 
Orizaba, apparently just as high above us as ever. 


IV 
MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 
BRANCH of the Mexican National Railway 


(which is all narrow gauge) runs west from 

the city over the mountains to Toluca, thence 
turns northwest to Acambaro; at this station a branch 
runs southwest to Morelia and Patzcuaro; the main 
line continues northward, crosses the Mexican Cen- 
tral at Celaya, and goes on to San Miguel de Allende. 
From this point it is expected to continue through 
San Luis Potosi to Saltillo, completing the connec- 
tion with the north. When this gap of 350 miles is 
spanned, there will be an all-rail route from San An- 
tonio to the city of Mexico, and the railway distance 
between the two cities will be shortened by some 
eight hundred miles. 

The road out of the Mexican basin follows the 
winding narrow valley of a pretty stream, offer- 
ing at first pleasing and then grand views, until at 
the station of Salazar it reaches the summit and an 
altitude of 10,027 feet. At this station it is always 
cool; there is a frost every night in the year, and the 
passengers who got out fora glass of pulque or a cup 
of coffee and a tortilla were cheered by the warmth 
of a stove in the agent’s shanty. This was the for- 
mer diligence route, and this mountain region was the 
scene only three or four years ago of numerous rob- 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO — 335 


beries and murders. The diligence was certain to be 
attacked if it carried passengers who were suspected 
of having valuables. The robbers in all cases were 
the Mexican citizens of the neighboring villages, and 
never the Indians. These Mexicans, who seem to 
have been sustained by public opinion, simply varied 
the monotony of their ordinary occupations by high- 
way robbery. If there were any political disturbance, 
throwing the administration into confusion, these 
good people would undoubtedly take to the road 
again. Here, as elsewhere in the republic, the more 
trustworthy part of the population are Indians and 
not the hybrids. 

From the summit the descent was rapid. Twilights 
are brief in this latitude, and it was dusk at a little 
after seven (we had left Mexico at five), when we came 
to the station in the plain of Toluca, and took the 
tram-cars for the city, distant a mile anda half. To- 
luca, one of the most beautifully situated and pleas- 
ing cities in Mexico, is seated on gentle hills rising 
out of an extensive and fertile plain, and is about 
eighty-five hundred feet above the sea. 

We were set down at the Hotel Lion de Oro, as 
the decorated sign which the French proprietor has 
brought with him testified. This hotel, which is of 
two stories, built about a court, with spacious rooms, 
prepossessed us in favor of the city, for it 1s neat and 
comfortable, and by far the best and cleanest hotel 
we found in the republic. 

The following morning was splendid, the air elas- 
tic, inspiring. I do not know which most to admire, 
the view of the town from a neighboring hill, or 


336 MEXICAN NOTES 


the view of the lovely valley and its guardian moun- 
tains from the terrace. The snow mountain of Toluca, 
whence the runners in the old Spanish days and the 
runners now bring the snow for cooling drinks, is a 
beautiful object in this clear atmosphere. The city 
is well paved and substantially built, has some fine 
old churches and towers, and is not only the cleanest 
city in Mexico, but is cleaner than any city in the 
United States. One of the small features of the place 
that attracted attention were queer frames, skeleton 
structures, like the electric-light stands, with small 
tanks on top. One of these stood in the governor’s 
garden next door to the hotel. The frame was sixty 
or seventy feet high and gayly painted; on top was 
a platform with a gay railing supporting the tank, 
and this was surmounted by a pagoda canopy, also 
brilliantly painted, and ornamented with images of 
large gilded butterflies on each corner. These things 
are the fashion here, and there is a strife between the 
wealthy citizens to have the highest and gaudiest. 
Water is pumped into the tanks, and we were told 
that they are used as shower-baths. 

The town has a small plaza prettily planted, with 
two fountains and an abundance of flowers ; at this 
season it was carpeted with violets and daisies. One 
of the most interesting pieces of architecture is a 
chapel attached to one of the ancient churches, which 
has a dome covered with colored mosaics very ori- 
ental in character. The market hall is a large, long 
building, with the roof supported on heavy Egyptian 
columns, painted in high colors —another of the 
many oriental suggestions in Mexico. In the arcades 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO = 337 


about the market square are many little eating and 
drinking shops. The place on Sunday morning was 
crowded with traffickers, and the objects for sale were 
spread all about — fruits, meats, vegetables, all sorts 
of merchandise, coarse and brilliantly painted pot- 
tery, rope like the Manila, made from the maguey, 
and pretty basket-work and mats. Large numbers 
of Indians had come in from the mountain villages. 
They were usually short, thick-chested, and heavy- 
limbed, and with black coarse hair and broad faces 
and high cheek-bones — very Indian in appearance. 
The women were clad in two pieces of blue cloth, 
wrapped about the body so as to leave the arms and 
legs free, and the breasts convenient to the calls of 
their offspring. Every woman was nursing a baby, 
and even the little girls commonly had charge of 
a more helpless specimen of their race. I suppose 
that these aborigines are substantially what they were 
when Cortez conquered the country, with the same 
native vigor and inferior, semibarbarous aspect, with 
their habits perhaps a little modified by a pseudo- 
Christianity. 

In the afternoon, an unusual thing for the season, 
there was a brief thunder-shower with hail, with loose 
high-sailing clouds and fine effects of shadows on the 
plain. We saw the sun set from a sharp hill over- 
looking the town, where there are the earthworks 
of what may have been a fort. The prospect was 
superb, one of the rare views of the world, over 
the flat-roofed town, out upon the vast green plain, 
the mountains lovely in the slant light, and the peak 
of Toluca rosy. The notable and surprising thing, 

22 


338 MEXICAN NOTES 


however, was the high and careful culture. The 
plain was like a garden, the only lines of demarca- 
tion being rows of the maguey plant. We had not 
expected such careful agriculture in Mexico. The 
great squares of brown earth, ready for the seed or 
newly sown, were tilled as finely as garden mold, 
and alternated pleasingly with the vast patches of 
green wheat and barley. We were told that the weeds 
in the wheat-fields are pulled up by hand, and the 
whole country gave evidence of this minute personal 
cultivation. The effect of this high culture was to 
give a very refined landscape. The view was very 
extensive, and grew more and more attractive with 
the light on the church towers and the round hills 
in the valley ; and when at last a rainbow spanned 
the plain, over which thin mists were trailing, the 
prospect was nothing less than enchanting. This is 
one of the richest valleys in the republic. It pro- 
duces a winter crop by irrigation, and a summer crop 
in the rainy season. 

The patience of the traveler is tried in two ways 
on the railway to Morelia — by the uncomfortable 
cars with small windows, from which it is difficult » 
to see anything, and the time consumed. We were 
twelve and a half hours in going about two hundred 
miles. After emerging from the fertile plain of To- 
luca we ascended into a broken country, the road 
rising and falling among the hills with many a long 
loop and curve. Many of these curves were unneces- 
sary feats of engineering, laid out when the build- 
ers expected the promised bonus of ten thousand 
dollars a mile; the curves are now being reduced, 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO — 339 


and the road shortened proportionally. The view 
was interesting, and often wide and glorious, the 
mountains fine in form, and the valleys irrigated, 
green,and lovely. Even the uncultivated spaces were 
covered with wild growth, among them a very sweet- 
scented acacia-bush with bright yellow flowers. We 
breakfasted at Flor de Maria, a neat station with a 
good table, and took coffee at four o’clock at Acam- 
baro in a station-shanty kept by Mexican Jim, who 
has the reputation among foreigners of being proba- 
bly the most honest Mexican now living. He was 
for many years the trusted body-servant of General 
McClellan during his Northwestern explorations. 
Toward evening we ran along the shore of Lake 
Cuitzco, a large body of water, containing many 
islands, and surrounded by noble mountains grace- 
ful in form. It seemed to me more beautiful than 
Lake George or Lake Winipiseogee; but perhaps the 
luminous warm atmosphere enhanced its beauty, for 
Mexico certainly has this advantage over our North- 
ern landscapes in an atmosphere full of color, which 
drapes hills and valleys like a delicate garment, as in 
_ southern Italy and Sicily. We came to the Morelia 
station after dark, and took the horse-railway to the 
town and the Hotel Michoacan. 

Morelia, the present capital of the State of Micho- 
acan, is a city of, I should think, fifty thousand to 
sixty thousand inhabitants, bright, cheerful, well built, 
surrounded by a lovely hilly country, and at an ele- 
vation of about fifty-five hundred feet. I am conscious 
that I am open to the charge of enthusiasm in gen- 
eral expressions of admiration for this charming and 


340 MEXICAN NOTES 


interesting city, and I have hardly space in this paper 
for details to make good my partiality. It is unne- 
cessary to go elsewhere for a more delicious climate 
than we found there in the month of March. The 
charm of the air is indescribable, so fresh, so balmy, 
so full of life, days of strong, genial sun, nights of 
mild serenity, so dry and temperate that we sat in 
the public square at midnight without need of a 
wrap. 

The night of our arrival the town seemed to be 
en féte. The large Zocolo, or principal plaza, pret- 
tily laid out in flower-beds and winding walks and 
fine trees, seats and music-stands, with several foun- 
tains, was gayly illuminated with Chinese lanterns 
and thronged with promenaders. In the streets and 
open spaces were erected hundreds of stands for the 
sale of sweets and native edibles, lighted by flaming 
torches, which threw a fantastic light upon the strange 
groups about them. These street venders are always 
to be seen at night cooking their indescribable 
“messes” in the open air, and many of the inhabit- 
ants seem to take their suppers regularly at these 
cheap stands. In the pagoda a fine military band 
was playing the music of Beethoven and Wagner. It 
was the famous band of the Eighth Regiment, the 
nucleus of that great orchestra which made such a 
musical sensation at the New Orleans Exposition. 
The air was sweet with the odor of the night-bloom- 
ing jasmine. In respect to its music, its gardens, 
cultivation of flowers, and its simple architecture, 
Morelia shows a high degree of civilization. 

I shall speak of some of the peculiar features of 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO | 341 


‘the place without any attempt at exhaustive or sys- 
tematic description. The hotel accommodation is 
inadequate, and the restaurant frequented by stran- 
gers is third-class. The new hotel, slowly rising 
room by room, on the plaza, promises to change all 
this. The cathedral has massive towers and great 
domes, and although of the Spanish composite order 
of architecture, is a noble building, the finest in 
Mexico. In full moonlight, or in the rosy light of 
sunset, it is wonderfully beautiful. In the large tower 
hangs the monster bell, which is rarely sounded, but 
there are many others of moderate size which are 
continually chiming. All these bells, and, indeed, 
nearly all the bells in the republic, are remarkable 
for sweetness and softness of tone. It is very rarely 
that one hears a harsh bell. They are exceedingly 
melodious and pleasing. It is sometimes explained 
that this is due to the mixture of silver in the bell- 
metal, and that the new bells are cast from old metal. 
I believe that the chief reason why the Mexican bells 
are so much more musical than ours is that the 
Mexican bells are artistically made, shaped with 
reference to tone, thin at the edge, each one a work 
of art intelligently manipulated, not mechanically cast 
without reference to the sound it shall produce. The 
great bells are struck with a clapper, and not swung. 
There would be much less objection to the use of 
church bells in the United States —the harsh and 
barbarous jangle which shocks the Sunday stillness 
— if our bells had any of the musical quality of the 
Mexican. The houses of Morelia are generally plain 
and mostly of one story, but in the principal streets 


342 MEXICAN NOTES 


and about the plaza are many buildings of fine 
proportions, and simple, noble facades, with elegant 
carvings in low relief. Even the new buildings in 
light cream-colored stone preserve the old elegance, 
the architects being as yet untouched by the modern 
craze for monstrous roofs, oddity, and over-orna- 
mentation. 

This is not the best season for fruits and flowers, 
but the spacious market was well supplied with tropi- 
cal fruits, great variety of bananas and plantains, 
oranges, mangoes, the several sorts of the zapota fam- 
ily, the chirimoya, the granadilla, and so forth; and 
the abundance of flowers of the common sort —roses, 
carnations, and sweet peas — testifies to the lca 
love of them. 

At the end of the main street begins the Calzada 
— literally, the “ shod-place.” Here, on and near an 
open square, are the bath-houses — cheap swimming 
tanks for the populace—and the decorated courts 
and apartments for the more wealthy. Not far off is 
a most humane institution, — a horse-bath, —a large 
deep reservoir, entered by an inclined plane, where 
the horses are taken, and enjoy a refreshing swim. ° 
The Calzada is half a mile of large ash-trees arched 
over a wide paved trottoir, with a continuous row 
of high-backed stone benches on each side. It isa 
famous place for promenading in the late afternoon. 
The drive runs on each side, fronted by a row of 
low, plain residences with pretty courts and flower- 
gardens. Upon some of the walls we saw the gor- 
geous camelina (or Bougainvillea) vine, the terminal 
leaf like a flower, some red and others purple. 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 343 


The stroller, who is detained by the pleasantness 
of this shaded Calzada, is surprised to find at the 
end of it new wonders — an open, tree-planted space ; 
in front of him a picturesque old convent-church 
with quaint towers, and to the right the great arches 
of aqueducts and entrancing vistas of forest and 
mountains. As he advances step by step and the view 
opens, his wonder increases. The place is unique, 
bewildering. The charm of the parti-colored church 
is increased by rows of ancient cedars in front, which 
all lean slanting across its facade, as if swept by a 
strong wind. Some say that an earthquake gave these 
venerable trees this cant. To the right, paths lead 
under the arches of the aqueduct to the Alameda. 
The aqueduct, reminding one of the noble structures 
that stride across the Roman Campagna, comes in 
from the mountains, and skirts the Alameda, while 
a branch at a sharp angle runs toward the town. 
Thus a series of noble interlacing arches is presented 
to the eye as one approaches from the Calzada, and 
the view through these is so novel and beautiful that 
the spectator is literally spellbound with delight. 
The glimpse of forests and purple hills through the 
arches is lovely, and the perspective of the giant 
aqueduct across the plain to the mountains is noble. 

Passing under the arches, we enter the Alameda, 
which is unlike any other in the world. It is at once 
a forest and a tangled garden, once trim and well kept, 
now more beautiful than ever in its neglected lux- 
uriance and reminiscence of former order. It has 
the charm of some old garden of a once magnificent 
estate. The grounds are a couple of miles in circum- 


344 MEXICAN NOTES 


ference, circled by a charming drive. The original 
plan seems to have been paths like the spokes of a 
wheel from a “ round ”’ in the center, but outside this 
round there are other centers and intersecting walks, 
offering in every direction the most charming vistas, 
through arching trees and vines and a//ées of flowers 
and tropical foliage. Although this park is public 
ground, individuals have obtained the privilege of 
living here and cultivating vegetable gardens and 
flowers, and here and there the wanderer comes across 
a half-ruined cottage hidden in the rampant vegeta- 
tion, surrounded by hedges of roses, acres of sweet 
peas, acres of carnations, a wilderness of scent and 
bloom. Crumbling monuments, circular seats of 
stone about the ruins of a fountain, pretty arbors, 
grass-grown paths —all formality lost in the neglect 
of man and the kindly luxuriance of nature. Such 
glorious foliage, such an inspiring, sparkling air, such 
a tender blue in the sky! I thought at the time that 
I had seen nothing of the kind lovelier in the world. 
And the whole scene is touched with the pathos of 
neglect and decay. 

On the afternoon of Shrove Tuesday all the city 
was out en féte. A band was playing in the Calzada; 
its benches were filled; its pavement was thronged. 
It was a féte of the common people, only now and 
then members of the better class mingling with the 
throng or passing in carriages. All the women of 
this class were invariably overdressed in exceedingly 
bad taste, in flamboyant colors of blue and green. 
Some very young girls appeared, mincing along in 
ridiculous costume — silk gowns made in the waist 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 345 


exactly like those of grown women, but with short, 
pleated skirts, long silk stockings, and white satin 
shoes. There were a few maskers and mummers 
rushing through the crowd in fantastic costumes, but 
the mass of the people were of the peasant class. 
And what a kaleidoscopic scene it was of shifting 
oddity and color, — every complexion invented by 
man, from black to cream — black hybrids, yellow 
hybrids, Spanish types, Indian types, — all a jumble 
of miscegenation, in bright serapes, graceful ribosas, 
big hats, wonderfully decorated trousers; and most 
notable of all, the dandies of the city, slender-legged, 
effeminate young milksops, the fag-end of a decayed 
civilization, without virility or purpose. I noticed 
that every woman, every child, and some of the men 
of the lower class were marked on the forehead with 
the sign of the cross in lampblack, and following the 
throng into the chapel, I saw the priests affixing this 
mark of consecration to the brows of the devout. It 
was altogether an orderly, polite, pleasing crowd, 
amusing itself simply and heartily in the sunshine. 
Nearly everybody was nibbling a head of lettuce. 
The Morelia lettuce is trained to grow in long 
blanched heads, and is the tenderest and sweetest in 
the world. It is delicious eaten without any condi- 
ment. All about the place piles of it were for sale, 
and each head was decorated with a scarlet poppy. 
These people have an artistic eye for color and effect. 
In the Alameda the scene was fully as picturesque, 
if less animated. In all the a//ées were seen pretty 
family groups, gay companies picnicking under the 
trees, and making merry with the simplest fare. That 


346 MEXICAN NOTES 


night, with music and moonlight in the balmy air, 
the plaza was as gay as a theater; the common peo- 
ple were cooking and eating a sort of Shrove- Tuesday 
cake, tortillas fried and sprinkled with sugar and 
grated nutmeg and cinnamon ; innumerable little fires 
of soft wood in elevated iron braziers cast a fantastic 
light upon the motley groups. These people have 
the secret of enjoyment at small expense. 

Morelia has a thriving state college in the nature 
of a general school for boys of all grades and ages, 
having a well-ordered library, mostly ecclesiastical, 
but with a fair collection of Greek and Latin classics, 
and some interesting old Spanish books. No attempt 
is made to keep up with modern literature. 

Morelia is apparently well ordered, and the State 
of Michoacan is at present peaceful. But I could not 
find that the people, though there is nominally gen- 
eral suffrage, have anything to do with the govern- 
ment, or take any interest in politics. Officers are 
retained or elected as dictated by the central personal 
government. It was the observation of American and 
English residents that the elections are a farce. What- 
ever votes are registered on election day, the result is 
predetermined. I was told of the case of a foreigner 
whowas employing a couple of hundred men in a min- 
ing operation which would be seriously interrupted if 
the men took a day or two off to vote. He stated his 
case to a government official, and was told that he 
might cast the votes of the men himself; and this he 
did. If the most of the officials, including the judges, 
are not venal, they are much belied by common re- 
port. Foreigners engaged in business reckon as part 


DIOR E LEA, AND PAWZCUARO . 347 


of their ordinary and necessary expenses money paid 
to judges and other officials to secure simple justice. 
In mentioning this I only repeat common talk. The 
Mexicans themselves rarely have confidence in each 
other. 

A great complaint throughout the republic is the 
rapacity of the customs and other officials. There ts 
little uniformity as to duties exacted. There are, as 
before said, not only the national duties, but duties 
on the border of each state, and the entrance to each 
city. The laws seem to be arbitrarily changed by the 
central authority, and the regulations are exceedingly 
vexatious to business men, who never know what to 
depend on. 

The republic sequestrated the monasteries and 
nunneries, and confiscated most of the church pro- 
perty. It also forbade all public religious processions, 
and the wearing in public of clerical garments. The 
priests are therefore not generally distinguishable 
by their dress. In Morelia, however, owing to the 
intense ecclesiasticism of its population, this rule was 
never severely enforced, and the priests retained a 
clerical garb. I think lately that there is visible in the 
country at large a little relaxation of severity against 
ecclesiasticism. If common report is accepted, the 
lives of most of the priests are not morally reputable. 
It would be unjust to take street gossip as final evi- 
dence of the morality of a people; but some facts are 
indisputable. Asa rule the Indians are not formally 
married, but they are said to be generally faithful in 
their domestic relations. For the ordinary Mexicans 
marriage is difficult, because of its expense and the 


348 MEXICAN NOTES 


many vexatious requirements. Informal relations are 
therefore common. In the higher classes it is said that 
the state of morals is little better than in the lower, 
but intercourse between the sexes is hedged about by 
the old Spanish customs. Women are watched and 
secluded. Chances of acquaintance are rare. The the- 
ory is that couples who are to marry never see each 
other alone till after the marriage ceremony. But 
human nature is human, nature as well in Mexico as 
elsewhere, and opportunities are found or made. Idle 
young men and equally idle young women, who nei- 
ther read nor work, will exercise their ingenuity. 
Courting is an elaborate science, and has a litera- 
ture and code of its own. I saw one afternoon a 
slender young gentleman, in the modified Mexican 
costume of the dandy of to-day, leaning against a col- 
umn of an arcade on the plaza, and ogling and mak- 
ing signs toward a window in the second story of a 
house diagonally across from where he stood. My 
companion, who knew the young gentleman, offered 
to engage him in conversation, while I sauntered 
along and looked up to the balcony, at the open win- 
dow of which sat the young lady who was replying to — 
the signals of her lover. —The young man was “ play- 
ing the bear.” Everybody who passed knew it, and 
accepted as a thing of course this semi-public furtive 
courtship. The lovers were using the sign-manual of 
the deaf-mutes. Their courtship had been going on 
for a year. It might continue for two or three years 
longer, and then, if the parents consented, it might 
end in marriage. In theory, the young people would 
never have an opportunity of meeting until such time 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO § 349 


as the parents arrange the betrothal, when the young 
man would be admitted to the house, and see his 
sweetheart in the presence of her relatives. In point 
of fact, he would come at night, especially if the night 
were dark, and stand under her window and talk with 
her, bring her flowers and fruit, exchange notes, and 
perhaps climb up and kiss her hand. Generally the 
lover bribes the servant to carry messages, and secretly 
to admit the lover to the apartment of his mistress. 
The young ladies are very devout in attendance on 
church services, for to church the lovers go also, and 
while the demure maid is kneeling beside her duefia or 
her mother, the young gentleman is kneeling against 
a pillar near by, and the two are talking with their 
fingers. When the apartments of the family of the 
beloved are on the ground-floor, courtship 1s carried 
on more satisfactorily at night through the window- 
bars. This policy of repression and seclusion, of 
distrust of the honor and virtue of women, has its 
natural result. Courtship becomes intrigue, and clan- 
destine meetings are always more dangerous than 
open intercourse. Lovers are proverbially ingenious. 
There is on sale everywhere and in universal use a 
cheaply printed little pamphlet entitled ‘ El Secre- 
tario de los Amantes.”’ It is the guide and handbook 
of lovers. It contains the language of flowers, the sig- 
nificance of the varied wearing and handling of the 
sombrero, the language of the fan, the language of 
fruits, the meaning of the varied use of the handker- 
chief, emblems for designating the hours of day and 
night in making appointments, the use of the nume- 
rals in cipher writing, several short chapters on the 


350 MEXICAN NOTES 


conduct of a love affair, and the deaf-mute alphabet 
for one hand. This literary gem seems to be more 
studied than any other in the republic. 

On the 12th of March we took the train for 
Lagonilla (a distance of some twenty miles, or two 
hours in time), then the end of the rail. The road 
is now finished to Lake Patzcuaro. The morning, 
as usual, was lovely, the air light, warm, superb. 
We had a fair view of Morelia as we left it and 
ascended; its domes and towers and situation in the 
plain gave it an oriental appearance, and suggested, 
without much resembling it, Damascus. The coun- 
try was irrigated in spots, and the vivid green patches 
with the hills and trees made a charming landscape. 

At Lagonilla our party of seven had chartered the 
four-wheeled diligence, a Concord coach, at a cost 
of twelve dollars, for the drive of fifteen miles, in 
three hours, over the wretched road to Patzcuaro. 
A high wind was blowing, and the way was exceed- 
ingly dusty. In all this region in the month of 
March a wind from the southwest arises about ten 
o'clock, and increases in violence all day till sunset, 
when it dies away. The country was rolling, much 
broken, cultivated in irrigated patches, the fine 
mountains in the distance. We passed through two 
or three paved, picturesque, and dirty villages. As 
we ascended, the weather grew cooler, the wind in- 
creased in force. The road was very bad, full of 
stones, bowlders, and pitch-holes, in places almost 
impassable. The line of the railway was most of the 
time in sight, and at intervals we encountered gangs 
of workmen throwing up slight embankments. The 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO § 351 


mode of working was peculiar. No wheelbarrows 
were used. Each workman had a small piece of 
matting or cloth about as big as a large dinner nap- 
kin. This he filled with dirt in the trenches, took 
up by the corners, and carried up and emptied on 
the embankment. Occasionally he would take up a 
chunk of earth in his hands. The pay of laborers 
was twenty-five cents a day. The effort to make 
them use wheelbarrows in grading had failed (many 
of the laborers carried the barrows on their heads 
after they had filled them), and the engineers insisted 
that the men accomplished more work in a day than 
a like gang would with barrows. The reason was 
that time is lost in filling the barrows and wheeling 
them up the roundabout plank inclined planes; the 
laborers run up and down the embankment quickly, 
and move more dirt in a day than by the method in 
use with us. 

Two miles outside of Patzcuaro we struck a wide 
road paved with small bowlders which nearly shook 
the coach to pieces. No sort of riding could be 
greater torture. The village lies in a hollow, a 
league from the lake, only parts of which are visible 
from certain elevations in the town. If it lay in sight 
of the lake, it would have one of the most beautiful 
situations possible. The town is sud generis, prim- 
itive and solid, and as yet very little affected by 
intercourse with the outside world. The new railway 
station is on the shore of the lake, two or three 
hundred feet lower than the town, and a couple of 
miles distant from the hollow in which it nestles. 


It has a large plaza, shaded by splendid ash-trees, 


352 MEXICAN NOTES 


and surrounded by arcades and colonnades, in which 
are very inferior shops. Friday is market-day, but 
there was no great display, the chief sellers being 
Indians from the neighboring villages, who brought 
in pottery, tortillas, and wilted vegetables. On a 
second plaza of good size, which has trees and large 
water-tanks like the larger one, stands the Hotel 
Concordia, a cheerful house with an inner court, 
and flowers and shrubs in red pots, and a wretched 
restaurant. The roofs of the town are tiled, and 
most of the houses, being of one story, have project- 
ing cornices of wood with supporting beams. Judg- 
iny by the number of old churches and suppressed 
monasteries, the place had once considerable eccle- 
siastical importance. Some of the churches have the 
beauty that is given by towers and archaic statuary 
and the mellow colors of faded reds and yellows. 
One of the suppressed convents, with a church at- 
tached, has a pretty Italian sort of court, sweet with 
the perfume of orange blossoms—a meditative place 
of cloistered seclusion. In its demesne I saw two La 
Marque rose-trees, fully twelve feet high, with stems _ 
five inches in diameter, perfect little trees, the 
umbrella-shaped tops covered with roses. The town 
is irregular and hilly, but all paved very roughly. On 
its highest elevation is a third open place, planted 
with noble trees, and fronted by the grim walls and 
gaunt church of an extinct monastery. On a hill to 
the westward is a ruined church, which is approached 
by a broad avenue of superb old ash-trees — a tree 
which attains great dignity in this region —and 
lined with prayer stations. Everywhere are the signs 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO § 353 


of a former haughty ecclesiastical domination, which 
perhaps reached its acme of cost and splendor in the 
days of Philip II. 

Patzcuaro gave few evidences of enterprise or busi- 
ness life, but it has many well-to-do citizens of cul- 
tivated manners and kindly hospitality. To some of 
these gentlemen we were indebted for many favors: 
they procured for us horses and mules; they planned 
excursions, and accompanied us on them; they 
brought us sweetmeats; they entertained us with the 
tinkle of guitars, and they were very solicitous about 
undue exertion or exposure, and the violation of their 
sanitary rules. One of the rules was never to bathe 
after a ride on horseback, not even to wash the face 
or the hands. It was considered very dangerous. 
These people knew nothing of the world, very little 
of the republic of Mexico, were to the last degree 
provincial, but had all the elaborate courtesy of man- 
ner that is called Spanish. 

The inhabitants, I suppose, are generally poor, 
and live closely, but in a week’s sojourn there we saw 
little abject poverty, or what was considered so there. 
The traders are sharp and not much to be depended 
on, the mechanics are dilatory, the temper of the 
whole people is that of procrastination. We saw very 
little drunkenness. The people drink to some extent 
pulque and a mild beer, and perhaps some strong 
liquors, but usually coffee, water, and drinks mildly 
flavored with limes and oranges. 

Perhaps this is as good a place as any to say 
that Mexico, in my observation, notwithstanding its 
facilities for making intoxicating beverages from the 

23 


354 MEXICAN NOTES 


cane and the maguey, and the absence of all restrict- 
ing legislation, is generally a temperate country. In 
some regions much pulque is drunk, and often much 
aguardiente (a fiery sort of high wine), and in the 
purlieus of the city of Mexico I saw many drunken 
men and women; but I believe the great body of the 
people, like the Spaniards in Spain, are essentially 
temperate. 

One of our first walks out of the town was three 
quarters of a mile to the top of a hill, where there is 
a long stone bench and a view of the lake. It isa 
favorite resort of the townspeople. Here on one 
occasion we encountered a party of revelers making 
too free with the bottle; but this was exceptional. 
From this elevation we went on a mile farther to the 
top of a mountain (which had two years ago an unfa- 
vorable reputation as the lookout of brigands), over- 
looking the town, the lake, long ranges of mountains, 
and a great stretch of country. 

The lake is irregular in shape, perhaps twenty miles 
in its widest diameter, filled with islands, and sur- 
rounded by shapely and noble mountains. On two 
of the islands are churches and fishing villages. The * 
fields on the border are highly tilled. I counted as 
many as sixteen villages in sight. The view was inex- 
pressibly lovely. The lake can be compared with any 
of our finest in beauty of outline, and it surpasses 
most of them in mountain surroundings. In its con- 
tour, steep hills, signs of an ancient and decayed civil- 
ization in villages and church towers, it has more 
likeness to the Italian lakes than to any in the United 
States, and the enveloping atmosphere has a color and 


MORELIA AND PATZCUARO 355 


warmth which ours usually wants. On our walk we - 
picked as many as thirty varieties of wild flowers. 
At Patzcuaro is sold a great quantity of Indian 
pottery, made at Tczintczuntczan and other villages, 
mostly in the shape of water-jars and coolers. These 
utensils, even the most rude in finish and the cheapest, 
are almost invariably beautiful, one might say classic, 
forms; and made of red clay, well baked, they have 
a color rivaling Pompeiian ware. Some of the jars are 
of enormous size, as big as those described in the 
story of the Forty Thieves in the Arabian Nights, 
and each one capable of containing and concealing a 
man. The vase is often ornamented with geometric 
designs in faint dark color, suggesting the Greek taste 
and skill. I found in Mexico a great variety of excel- 
lent common pottery, exceedingly cheap, usually or- 
namented, sometimes with barbaric tints in colors, but. 
always effective. The most barbaric ornamentation 
has an instinct for effect in it which is truly artistic ; 
in the crudest ware with the most splashy decoration 
there is something pleasing, varied, artistic, a native 
grace which is wanting in what we call civilized work. 
At Toluca we purchased plates of a lovely cream- 
color, with quaint designs entirely Persian in style. 
At Patzcuaro we found by chance, for it was not 
displayed for sale, something that interested us more 
than anything else made in Mexico. This was a true 
iridescent ware. The specimens we obtained were 
small round and rectangular plates. The luster is the 
true Saracenic, Alhambra, or Gubbio luster, the real 
iridescence, shimmering, shifting colors in changing 
lights, ruby, green, blue. Would it not be singular 


356 MEXICAN NOTES 


if this lost art were preserved in Mexico? The ware 
is rude. The makers of it have not the certainty of 
producing a particular color in a picture which dis- 
tinguishes the Gubbio work, and it lacks the elegance — 
and the glaze, the solidity and fineness, of the Alham- 
bra tiles. But it is genuine iridescence. The plates 
are exceedingly thin and brittle. The luster seems 
to be metallic, of copper, and the effect to be pro- 
duced by subjecting the ware to an exceedingly high 
temperature, a firing so fierce that the clay is appar- 
ently disintegrated, and has lost its ringing quality. 
It was impossible during our stay to obtain defi- 
nite information as to the place of its manufacture. 
It might be made, some one thought, in the city 
of Puebla, but pueblo is the general name for an 
Indian village, and the seller, when questioned, was 
doubtful. Several Mexican gentlemen of intelligence 
assured me that it came from Santa Fé, a small In- 
dian village on the north shore of Lake Patzcuaro, 
and that it was only brought in on Palm Sunday. 
Subsequently we learned that this extraordinary pot- 
tery is made in the little mountain village of San 
Felipe Torresmochas, in the State and near the town — 
of Guanajuato. 


Vv 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN — URUAPAN 


cans, attended by a single mozo, or servant, 

rode on the 15th of March, on horses and 
mules, from Patzcuaro to Tczintczuntczan, four 
leagues Spanish, or about fifteen miles. The trip 
might have been made on the lake in the long In- 
dian dugouts, but at this season of the year the 
strong wind from the southwest which invariably 
rises before noon renders the lake very rough for 
rowboats. 

The day was glorious and the ride thoroughly 
exhilarating. Nothing else that I know equals the 
pleasurable excitement of being on horseback on a 
sparkling morning, and setting out on a journey 
every step of which is full of novelty. We took 
at first the paved road toward Morelia, but soon 
turned off across fields, the ancient way to Tczin- 
tczuntczan, which is one of the oldest of Indian vil- 
lages, and was formerly the capital of the State of 
Michoacan. In the low foreground, when we turned 
off, we had the lake, and beyond, high, pointed, 
irregular, silvery mountains. 

We crossed a shallow arm of the lake on a cause- 
way and an ancient bridge. Thousands of black 
ducks, and now and then a white crane, enlivened ~ 


; LITTLE company of Americans and Mexi- 


358 MEXICAN NOTES 


the lagoon, and.at the bridge stalwart Indian fisher- 
men were hauling a seine, their dugout moored to 
the bank. This boat, hollowed out from a tree 
trunk, was thirty feet long, deep, broader at the 
bottom than at the top. Some of the Indian boats 
are much longer than this, and their size testifies 
to the noble forest growth. They are propelled by 
poles, and by paddles shaped like a warming-pan, 
and are said to be perfectly safe. We skirted the 
lake by a very stony road for some distance. On 
the way we constantly met Indians, barelegged and 
bare-breasted, wretchedly clad, the men bending 
under enormous crates of pottery, and the women 
moving with the quick trot peculiar to them, on 
their way to market. In old days this was a sort of 
royal .road, and it is now so much traveled by foot- 
men that women find it profitable to set up shelves 
along the way for the sale of food. We crossed 
another long causeway, through a lagoon, sedgy, 
silvery, swarming with ducks; the scene was very 
pretty and peaceful, and the view combined the ele- 
ments of loveliness and grandeur. 

Winding up and around slight elevations through 
a country little tilled, we came in sight of Tczin- 
tczuntczan, nestling beside the blue lake, a cluster of 
brown flat roofs amid trees, with two old church 
towers rising out of the foliage. Ona height to the 
right are the ruins of the palace of King Caltzontzi, 
now a mere heap of unburnt bricks on the rocks. 
This royal residence of the King of the Tarascons, 
before the arrival of the Spaniards, overlooked a 


lovely domain of lake and hills and sloping fields, 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 359 


and had gathered about it in rude adobe huts a popu- 
lation of fishermen and potters, whose descendants 
practice the same arts, and have no doubt the same 
appearance and manners, except as they are modified 
by the forms of the foreign religion. 

The interior of the town does not keep the pro- 
mise of the exterior for picturesqueness. The streets 
are broad, but full of rubbish, uneven, and mere lanes 
between blank adobe walls, with now and then a 
door opening into a garden or a miserable tenement. 
We alighted under sycamore-trees in front of the 
jail and court-house. The jail has two apartments, 
_half-dark rooms, partly excavated out of the hill, a 
floor of earth, one small grating of wood in front, 
which serves for door and window, and furnished 
with a jug of water and a mat or two on the ground 
for a bed. At this grating two patient women sat 
talking with a couple of stupid-looking young men 
who were locked up for theft. The prisoners seem 
to depend upon their relations for food. The court- 
room is a decent apartment, and has hanging on the 
wall several badly painted portraits, and a very curi- 
ous ancient picture, representing the arms of the city 
of Zinzunzan (as it is here spelled), and contains the 
portraits of three kings,— El Rey Cigauagau, El 
Rey Sinzicha Tangajuan Bulgo Caltzontzi, and El 
Rey Characu,—in one quarter arms and banners, 
in the other several heads, three castles, a man in 
ermine, swords, and crown. 

The city has no hotel or place of entertainment, 
and most of the houses into which we looked are 
mere adobe sheds, with little furniture. But the 


360 MEXICAN NOTES 


place has a schoolroom, where the education seems 
to be very primitive. We ate the luncheon we had 
carried in the best house in the place, in a large room, 
displaying some taste in decorations, having some 
specimens of the Uruapan wooden ware and painted 
plates on the walls. In this house there was one of 
the red jars manufactured here having an excellent 
head in high relief on the side, Egyptian in its noble 
serenity, and yet graceful — the only decoration of so 
high a type that I saw. 

The chief business of the village, except fishing, 
is the manufacture of pottery. This is carried on 
entirely in private houses and gardens. The clay is 
obtained from a hill near the town, and is brought 
by the men, who also fire the kilns for the baking, 
and they usually tote it to market. The women do 
the rest of the work. They knead the clay and 
mold the pottery, a labor at which their small hands 
and pliant fingers are exceedingly deft. No wheels 
are used. All the utensils are made in half-molds 
and joined before baking. Seated on the ground, the 
woman has at her side a heap of clay, and before 
her a composing-stone. The clay she kneads and 
rolls and spats in her hands until it is of proper 
and uniform thickness (and the women are exceed- 
ingly skillful at this), and then it is pressed into the 
molds. As this ware is very cheap in the distant 
market, a woman must make a good deal of it in a 
day to support her family. A house here generally 
consists of an inclosure in mud walls, perhaps a 
shabby garden with some fine roses and other flowers, 
an open adobe hut where the pottery is made and 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 361 


baked, and an equally rude hut where the family 
sleep on mats spread on the earth. At one of the 
pottery places was a small chapel to St. Helena, with 
a bedizened figure of the saint, and hung with votive 
offerings. A penitent, a young woman bearing a 
lighted candle and attended by an elderly dame, 
stood in front of the altar. At this house, where we 
were received with entire courtesy and politeness, 
though all the eyes of the women, children, and boys 
followed us with a little suspicion, as if the presence 
of strangers was unaccountable, I had a curious illus- 
tration of the morals of the community. I had in my 
hand a fine rose, which came from the garden where 
we lunched, and as an acknowledgment of the cour- 
tesy of the house, and when we were saying good-by, 
I offered it to one of the young girls. She refused 
it with indignation, or, rather, took it and cast it 
angrily on the ground, while all the group looked at 
us with suspicion. I could not imagine what was 
wrong, but my Mexican friends explained afterward 
that it was an insult to offer a flower to a maiden in 
that way, for the inference was that I had a bad 
motive. 

The Indians of this village are industrious, virtu- 
ous, and exceedingly poor, judging poverty by the 
standard of our wants. The women are short in 
stature, broad and sturdy, but with small feet and 
hands, and much resemble our Northern squaws in 
features, but they have a mass of thick black hair, 
which has in it a red glint in the sun. On the shore, 
where we went to see the fishermen drawing their 
nets, and where the view of the blue water and the 


362 MEXICAN NOTES 


mountains is very pretty, the women and children 
all ran away and squatted in the bushes at our 
approach. The presence of a lady in our party even 
gave them no confidence. 

The present attraction of this village is not the 
ancient palace of the native king, nor the descend- 
ants of his people, who mold the antique pottery 
and burn candles to St. Helena. It is the romance 
of the Spanish ecclesiastical dominion. It is finding 
in this remote Indian village the remains of a splen- 
did hierarchy, which counted no labor too much, no 
sacrifice too costly, no prodigality of money too free, 
to secure the salvation and the tribute of the West- 
ern world. Tczintczuntczan was the capital of this 
province and the natural center for the display of 
the magnificence of the Church. The name was 
well known in Spain; the village and its people 
were favorites with Philip II., who seems to have | 
had an exaggerated notion of its importance. Here 
arose churches and convents, here learned and saintly 
devotees of the faith gave their lives to the cause of 
the cross, and to these poor savages Philip made a 
gift that any monarch or any city might envy. 

When we entered the walled church inclosure, we 
seemed to have stepped back into the sixteenth cen- 
tury. The scene is more Italian than Spanish in 
character. This large inclosure, now neglected and 
run to waste, was once a beautiful garden, cultivated 
by the monks, who liked, in their exile, to surround 
themselves with something to remind them of home. 
There are evidences that it was formally laid out 
and planted, but the paths are overgrown, and only 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 363 


stray lilies and roses remain to attest the former care. 
That which most vividly recalls the Spanish mission- 
aries and their taste is the olive-trees that entirely 
surround the inclosure within the walls. Judging 
by their appearance, they must have been planted 
three centuries ago. They are the largest olive-trees 
I ever saw, and bear unmistakable marks of great 
age. Most of them are mere ruins of trees, many 
of them mere shells of bark, but all of them, with 
the tenacity of the olive, still putting forth verdant 
sprouts on their decayed summits, and bearing fruit. 
Twisted, gnarled, fantastic, hollow, with recesses 
where one may sit, and cleft so that one can pass 
through the trunk, they yet stand like shapes of 
vegetation in an artist’s dream of Inferno. I doubt 
if the world can show elsewhere a more interest- 
ing group of these historic trees. In the center of 
the inclosure some men and boys, in a leisurely 
and larkish mood, were digging a grave. A few 
other graves are there, but no headstones. Some of 
the mounds were very fresh, suggesting a sudden 
access of mortality, in this healthful region; some 
one remarked that March was probably the time to 
die, the very aged being shaken off by the rude, 
persistent winds of the season. A wretched beggar 
or two followed us. One of them, who was much 
deformed and had been very clinging, made a 
specialty of fits. I had already given him something, 
but it was not enough for his deserts, and when we 
were about to enter the house for our lunch, he 
threw himself on a heap of rubbish in the street and 
went into convulsions, foaming at the mouth. When 


364 MEXICAN NOTES 


he saw that nobody paid any attention to him, he 
got up and went away. 

In the inclosure are two ancient churches, one 
with a tower and bells, the parish church, gaunt and 
plain, the other the chapel attached to the monas- 
tery. Both have an appearance of decay and non- 
use, the religious accommodations being now in 
excess of the dwindled population. —The monastery, 
with its outer stairway, gallery, and courts, is a de- 
cidedly picturesque old pile, with color subdued, but 
not much faded. The adjoining chapel is large, and 
above the average of Mexican church interiors in 
interest, and the cloisters are beautiful. In the 
center, walled by a low parapet and open to the sky, 
is such a garden as one finds in the decaying mon- 
asteries of Italy, with orange-trees and a tangle of 
vines, and a cat asleep inthe sun. The cloister is of 
two stories, with round arches, one above the other; 
the ceiling corners are of wood carved in arabesque, 
as in Moorish architecture. On the walls are very 
rude and high-colored paintings, representing the rites 
of baptism, confirmation, confession, and so forth. It 
is altogether a bit of the Old World, and one has 
here an indefinable sense of peace and repose. 

The aged priest who has charge of the premises and 
lives in apartments above the cloisters, the only intel- 
ligent man in the village, was unfortunately absent, 
and we had difficulty in persuading the girl who 
answered our call from the upper gallery to come 
down and unlock the sacristy door. In the sacristy 
is the treasure of Mexico. The room is oblong, 
and has windows only on one side, towards the west, 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 365 


broad windows, closed with wooden shutters. On 
the walls are several so-called sacred daubs and a 
number of uncouth and rubbishy images. But across, 
and filling one end over the vestment chest, hangs 
“The Entombment,” by Titian. The canvas, which is 
inclosed in a splendid old carved wooden frame, is fif- 
teen and a half feet long. It contains eleven figures, 
all lifesize.” In the upper left-hand corner is a bit of 
very Titianesque landscape, exactly like those which 
Titian was fond of introducing into his pictures, and 
which his contemporaries attributed to the influence 
of his birthplace, Pieve di Cadore; on a hill are three 
crosses in relief, against an orange sky. In the lower 
left-hand corner is Mary Magdalen seated on the 
ground, contemplating the nails and crown of thorns. 
In the lower foreground, very realistically painted, are 
an ointment box and a basin. 

The figure of Christ, supported in a sheet, is be- 
ing carried to the tomb —a dark cavern in the rear. 
Two men, holding the sheet, support the head, and 
one the feet. Aiding also in this tender office is a 
woman, her head bowed over that of the dead Christ. 
Behind is St. John, Mary the Virgin, Mary whom 
Christ loved, and St. Joseph. There are two other 
figures, partially in shadow at the right, spectators of 
the solemn scene, and one of them is said to be a 
portrait of Philip II. 

The flesh-painting of the central figure is marvel- 
ously fine in imitation of the rigid pallor of death, 
while that of two of the figures carrying the body 
is equally true to robust life. The St. John 1s ex- 
quisitely beautiful in drawing and color, conveying 


366 MEXICAN NOTES 


the traditional grace and manly tenderness of the 
beloved disciple. The vestments are in Titian’s best 
manner, the reds and deep blues harmonious and 
beautiful in tone. 

The grouping is masterly, natural, free, and as little 
academic as such a set scene well can be. Indeed, 
composition and color both proclaim the picture a 
great masterpiece. As you study it you have no 
doubt that it is an original, not a copy. It has the 
unmistakable stamp of genuineness. The picture, 
thanks to the atmosphere of this region, is in a per- 
fect state of preservation, the canvas absolutely un- 
injured. 

Is this great picture really a Titian? It seems 
incredible that a work of this value and importance 
should be comparatively unknown, and that it should 
be found in a remote Indian village in Mexico. 
But the evidence that it is a Titian is strong. It was 
sent to this church by Philip II., who seems to have 
thought that no gift was too costly or precious for 
the cause of the true faith, and who no doubt was 
deceived by the exaggerated Spanish narratives of 
the native civilization and taste. Titian, we know, 
visited at the court of Philip, and executed works to 
his order. It is possible that this picture is a replica 
of one somewhere in Europe. I think that any one 
familiar with the works of Titian would say that this 
is in his manner, that in color and composition it is 
like his best pictures. I trust that this description of 
it will lead to some investigation abroad that will 
settle the question. 

We stayed in the village several hours, and re- 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 367 


turned again to look at the picture before we left. 
The western sun was shining into the broad win- 
dows, illuminating the shabby apartment in which it 
hung. And in this light the figures were more life- 
like, the color more exquisite, the composition love- 
lier, than before. We could not but be profoundly 
impressed. I cannot say how much was due to the 
contrast of the surroundings, to the surprise at find- 
ing such a work of art where it is absolutely lost to 
the world and unappreciated. I say unappreciated, 
for I do not suppose there is a human being who 
ever sees it, except at rare intervals a foreign visitor, 
who has the least conception of its beauty. And yet 
these ignorant natives and the priest who guards it 
are very much attached to it, attributing to its pre- 
sence here, I think, a supernatural influence. They 
will not consent to part with it, perhaps would not 
dare to let it go. A distinguished American artist 
was willing to pay a very large sum of money for it; 
the Bishop of Mexico made an effort to get posses- 
sion of it and carry it to the capital; but all offers 
and entreaties have been refused and resisted. How 
long it will be safe in a decaying building, in the 
midst of a population that has no conception of its 
value as a work of art, is matter of conjecture. 

We rode home partly on another road, through 
lanes densely bordered with vegetation and amid 
plantations under the mountain and by the lake shore. 
Everywhere are signs of a former ecclesiastical vigor. 
In the midst of one luxuriant plantation close to the 
lake we passed a very old church, with a detached 
campanile of adobe, having a bell, the only access to 


368 MEXICAN NOTES © 


which was by a ladder. The evening was lovely, 
and as we climbed the winding, rough, and stony 
paths to Patzcuaro we had a charming view of the 
Jake and its islands. 

Our curiosity had been excited by the curiously 
decorated wooden ware of Uruapan, and we heard 
so many contradictory reports about the charms of 
this village, which is famous for its coffee, that I de- 
termined to ride over there. The shortest distance is 
forty-five miles, but for the sake of better roads we 
made it fifty. The journey must be on horseback. 

It was St. Patrick’s Day in the morning as we rode 
through the arch out of the courtyard of the inn. 
The morning-star was a diamond point in the rosy 
dawn. The mozo led the way, a sword strapped to 
his saddle, a pannier containing bread, cold chicken, 
and cheese, while the necks of a couple of bottles of 
wine peeped out of the basket. The wine was in 
case of sickness. The sword was for war. Mr. Pablo 
Plata, Mexican gentleman, wore leather leggings, a 
linen coat, and a serape over his shoulders. The 
white horse of the writer was a fast walker, with an 
easy gait, single foot or canter, and entirely bridle- ~ 
wise, guided by a touch of the rein on the neck or by 
the pressure of the knees. The Mexican horses are 
small, but they have endurance, and are generally 
agreeable under the saddle. 

The soft bells were ringing for matins as we rattled 
over the stone pavement, came out into the country 
lanes, and left the town in its repose. The air was 
deliciously fresh; birds sang in the hedgerows; 
there was the exhilaration of spring, of young love; 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 369 


every sense was delighted. A mile beyond the town, 
at the parting of the paths, and in the point of a hill, 
we passed a cave. It used to be a lurking-place for 
bandits: only two years before, robbery and murder 
had been done there. The sun touched the mountain- 
tops as we passed the grewsome place. In an hour 
the lake was in sight ; in two hours we had descended 
into and crossed the plains at the foot of the lake, and 
passed through a couple of Indian villages ; at the end 
of three hours, after a considerable ascent, the lake was 
still in view, a lovely object in its mountain setting, 
the end of a vista of fertile slopes and luxuriant val- 
ley. The day was lovely, but at nine o’clock the wind 
began to blow. 

Coming up the mountain through a noble growth 
of pines, and reaching the crest, suddenly a grand 
prospect burst upon us— double rows of mountains 
on the Pacific coast, and miles and miles below, down 
the mountain, a vast valley, away off in the tierra 
caliente, swooning in a dense atmosphere. The sky 
was very clear, but the mountains were hazy blue, 
and the valley stretching into purple distance slept.in 
the sun. The country was for the most part untilled, 
and the inhabitants were few; trains of pack-mules 
were met carrying sacks of sugar and bales of cotton, 
occasionally a gypsy-like encampment by the road- 
side was seen, and we passed two collections of huts 
called ranches, and a pueblo of Indians of the Tarascon 
tribe. Leaving on our right the village of Tingam- 
bato, its church tower conspicuous in the trees, we 
went down, down the mountain over an intolerable 
stony path, and came at noon to Ziracuaritiro, a warm 

24 


370 MEXICAN NOTES 


village hidden in plantations of bananas, oranges, and 
all sorts of fruits of barbarous names and insipid 
taste, cane-fields, irrigated, and general tropical luxu- 
riance of vegetation. The village had a sort of center, 
with a rude plaza and a primitive church; but it is 
mainly a town of lanes, gardens, and small planta- 
tions, in the midst of which the inhabitants live in 
thatched huts of adobe or cane, semi-African in ap- 
pearance. 

We turned into a garden to eat our luncheon. 
I call it a garden; it was merely a tangle of shrub- 
bery, without flowers, and with few fruit-trees and 
no grass. In the inclosure was an adobe hut, only 
half roofed, that served as a kitchen, another small 
adobe hut where the family slept on mats on the 
ground, and an openwork hut of cane, with a rude 
bedstead —a couple of boards laid on trestles — 
for all furniture, the residence of a married daugh- 
ter. The visible family was the mother, a woman 
evidently of good sense and sterling character, a 
well-grown lad, asleep in the middle of the day on 
a mat, a couple of young girls, the young married | 
daughter, aged twenty-five, who had, nevertheless, a 
daughter aged thirteen, and a friend of the family, 
a rather pretty woman, of modest demeanor, who 
had married an old man, and lived in a neighboring 
thicket. These people. were wretchedly poor, but 
exceedingly civil and friendly. They set out a table 
for us in the shade, but, except some cooking uten- 
sils of pottery and a few coarse plates, table furniture 
they had none, not even knives and forks. Fruit 
they could not furnish. During our siesta, while 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 371 


the horses were resting, — the Mexican horses are 
allowed no food on a journey from morning till 
night, — I made the acquaintance of this amiable 
family. They all had the curiosity of children, and 
were never tired of looking at my watch, compass, 
ring, and the antique coins attached to the watch 
chain. What interested them chiefly, however, was 
the cost of everything. The prices invariably brought 
from these feminine lips the softest profane exclama- 
tions of surprise. They all had low-pitched, sweet 
voices. The sole reply of the married daughter to 
any question was ‘“‘ Sefior,” in a rising or falling in- 
flection, never “Si, sefior,” or “‘ No, sefior.”” When 
it was time to go, the simple souls were as reluctant 
to have us depart as if we had been lifelong friends. 
The comely lad, who acted as our guide on the way 
to show us some of the finest fruit plantations, of 
pines, oranges, and bananas, was very reluctant to 
accept the two-real piece of silver I forced into his 
hand. Evidently a kindly, gentle-natured people. 
Our way for miles lay through hot lanes and cane- 
fields, with everywhere the sound of running water. 
At the foothills we stopped to see a large sugar 
hacienda, a characteristic establishment, half civil- 
ized, half barbarous; a mingling of mill, office, 
kitchens, terrace, yard, store, storehouses, lodging- 
rooms, dogs, mules, parrots, and mongrel men and 
women. And then up, up the mountain, through 
open pine forests, with occasionally trees of giant 
size, and from the ridges glorious views under the 
trees of great mountains and the extensive hot coun- 
try, with its towns and green plantations. At length, 


B72 MEXICAN NOTES 


after a long pull, we reined up on the summit, on 
the edge of a precipice overlooking the great plain 
of Uruapan. The view was a surprise. Below was 
the valley, five or six miles broad, plentifully irri- 
gated, green with maize, barley, cane; at its farther 
side, in the foothills, the city of Uruapan, shining 
in the rays of the withdrawing sun; below it, in the 
luxuriant plain, two lakes like mirrors; and beyond, 
noble mountain-peaks, stretching away to the Pa- 
cific, inclosing high valleys smoking with charcoal 
burning. All this lovely panorama projected on a 
background of pink sunset. 

After we had picked our way down a precipitous 
path, and passed the large hacienda of St. Cathe- 
rine, encountering droves of mules and cattle on the 
dusty roads, we entered the very broad and straight 
street, cut all the way longitudinally by deep ruts, that 
leads to the town. The way was terribly long to us 
and to our somewhat jaded beasts, and it seemed as 
if we never should reach the town. It was seven 
o'clock and dark when we came to the first houses, 
and then we had a long ride over the paved hilly .. 
streets, between blank walls of houses, houses with 
window-shutters and no glass, to the Hotel St. An- 
tonio. We had been warmly recommended to this 
as an excellent hotel, and tired, dusty, and hungry 
as we were, we rode into the courtyard with great 
expectations. It was a miserable fonda of one story 
about a shabby court. No one appeared to welcome 
us. After calling and waiting some time, a nonchalant 
boy, who represented the indifference of the estab- 
lishment, appeared, and said we could have rooms. 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 373 


In the course of ten minutes more of shuffling about 
he showed us an apartment, and by means of a tal- 
low candle, which he procured after another long 
absence, we saw that it was a barrack of a room, con- 
taining two cot beds, a wooden horse for the saddles, 
and a rickety washstand. The window had no glass, 
and the shutter was tightly closed. I asked for a 
separate room, —a request which the boy did not 
even take into consideration, —and when he had 
brought a pitcher of water, he seemed to think his 
whole duty was discharged, for when we asked about 
supper, he went away without any reply whatever, 
and we saw him no more. I wandered out into the 
court to the family apartments. A woman with a 
lot of children about her was seated on the ground; 
she made a surly reply to my salutation, evidently 
regarded me with suspicion, and to my inquiry about 
supper deigned no answer. It was a real Spanish 
fonda reception. In the meantime the mozo had dis- 
covered that there was no food for the horses; and 
as they were ready at the door, we left the candle 
burning in the stately apartment, and, no man or 
woman opposing, mounted our tired horses, and rode 
away in the moonlight to another fonda on the plaza. 
The situation of this was better, the fonda worse if 
anything than the other, except that it had a kitchen, 
kept by a couple of old women, and financially dis- 
tinct from the hotel. The court was sunken, an un- 
tidy place, having a few tattered banana plants, where 
mules were tied at night. Our mozo looked after 
the horses, having to go out and buy food for them, 
and the proprietor contented himself with showing 


374 MEXICAN NOTES 


us a room, the only one not occupied. It had two 
beds and a tightly barred window. As my comrade 
objected to opening even a crack to let in the deadly. 
night air, I had a headache in the morning. It seemed 
‘to me that a hot bath, after such a long, weary ride, 
would be refreshing, but my proposal was met with 
an exclamation of horror. Almost on his knees Mr. 
Plata begged me not to think of such a suicidal per- 
formance. Fortunately for his views, it turned out 
that there was no public bath in this city of nine 
thousand inhabitants. The next day, when I searched 
the town for one, the women in charge of an estab- 
lishment to which I was sent, said that if I would 
order one, they would prepare it for next day. 

The demesne of the old women consisted of a 
small room with a couple of rude tables, without 
tablecloths, and benches, and a smaller kitchen. 
The earthen vessels for cooking hung on the walls, 
and all the center was occupied by a stone range 
having several little holes for charcoal fires. These 
women were exceedingly good-natured, promised a 
supper in time, and sent off their slatternly serving- _ 
maid to buy beer and bread. While the meal was — 
/ in preparation, I went out to see the town. 

The night scene was lively. The town has a 
double plaza, each surrounded by arcaded dwell- 
ings and shops, all more or less shabby, but appear- 
ing well in the moonlight. The shops were open; 
half the town seemed to be getting its frugal supper 
in the open air, and the place was quite illuminated 
by the flaring torches of the dealers, who squatted on 
the ground, and offered their fragrant but uninviting 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 375 


cooking to the hungry. Beyond the plaza is a very 
pretty paseo, a lovely promenade, well-kept walks 
among the trees and beds of bloom, an enchanting 
place in the moonlight, with the plash of the foun- 
tain arid the odor of night-blooming flowers. Front- 
ing it is the chief church of the place, a very good 
specimen of Spanish architecture. The town itself, 
I found next morning, is an out-at-the-elbow sort 
of place, but I know few others anywhere that have 
a prettier little paseo. It was nearly nine o'clock 
before our supper was ready —a nondescript meal, 
and I suppose not bad for those who like the ordi- 
nary Mexican cooking. 

We waited in the morning an hour for a cup of 
coffee. The traveler in Mexico has to learn that 
he must order his coffee the night before. Its pre- 
paration 1s a slow process. The berry, burned black, 
is ground to a fine powder, and water is let to drip 
through it drop by drop. The liquid, real essence 
of coffee, is black as ink, and a tablespoonful suffices 
in a cup of hot milk. As commonly made it is too 
much burned and bitter. But the Mexican coffee, 
when the berry is properly cured, and not let to 
acquire an earthy flavor by drying on the ground, 1s, 
I think, as good as any in the world. This raised 
in Uruapan is equal to the better-known Colima, the 
selected small round berries resembling Mocha in 
appearance and flavor. 

I had made the acquaintance the night before of 
a drifting American named Santiago, one of the 
adventurers who give the Mexicans their idea of the 
people of the United States. Born on our frontier, 


376 MEXICAN NOTES 


he had never seen a city, nor much of civilized life, 
but had been cowboy, Texan rover, and associate of 
the lawless, and gravitating to Mexico and picking up 
the language, had acted as interpreter for cattle buyers 
and railway surveyors. He was now selling sewing- 
machines on the installment plan in Michoacan. 
The business ought to be good, for a machine cost- 
ing fourteen dollars in the United States sells for 
seventy-five in Mexico. Santiago’s business was to 
sell the machines, teach the women how to use 
them, and then collect the seven dollars a month 
installments. Often the machines revert, after the 
payment of a couple of installments, and they are 
often also taken out of pawn by the agent and sold over 
again. Santiago had another still more interesting 
business. This is the selling of enlarged and col- 
ored photograph likenesses. Finding a photograph, 
taken by a strolling photographer, he persuades the 
owner to have it enlarged. Santiago sends this to a 
firm in a remote town in New York, with a descrip- 
tion of the subject, complexion, color of hair, and 


eyes. This is thrown up to lifesize, properly colored, _ 


and returned. The noble picture costs Santiago about 
twenty dollars delivered, and he sells it for forty. 
Thus the fine arts are slowly sifting into Mexico. 
We explored the town that morning in search of 
good specimens of the Uruapan lacquered ware. It 
is famous the world over; it has taken the prize 
of gold medals at Paris, Vienna, Philadelphia. As 
usually happens in like cases, it was impossible to 
find good specimens in the town where the article is 
made. We visited the family whose work has taken 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 377 


the prizes, but it had no finished work ; indeed, the 
artist whose work won the gold medals had recently 
died. The ware of other makers was decidedly in- 
ferior, and I found nowhere, in shops or private 
houses, specimens of the best. The work is either 
gourds or shallow dishes of wood cut out with a 
jack-knife, brilliantly decorated in colors. In the gen- 
uine ware a ground-color is first put on, gold or olive, 
or some low tone; on this the drawings, usually of 
flowers, are made; the figures are then cut out deeply 
with a knife, something as in wood-engraving, and 
the intaglio is filled with paint, each color being laid 
in separately and left to dry thoroughly before another 
is added. As there are as many colors as may be in 
a bouquet of various flowers, the process is slow. 
When the paint is perfectly dry, the whole surface is 
rubbed with a paste made of tree-caterpillars. This 
gives an enduring lacquer to the surface that resists 
grease and hot water. The ware therefore retains its 
brilliant color and beauty, no matter how hard the 
usage, till it is literally worn out. The market value 
of this worm paste is two dollars a pound. As the 
finest ware is only made by one family, a small amount 
is produced, and the price is high. The drawings in 
this family are all done by a stupid-looking girl of 
sixteen, and her designs are all mechanically copied. 
The former draughtsman always drew his flowers from 
nature. 

While waiting for breakfast, I visited the old church 
on the paseo. The most notable thing about it is a 
fine flower-garden, occupying all the ground at one 
side. Within I found the usual bare white walls, but 


378 MEXICAN NOTES 
a highly decorated and gilded chancel and altar, a 


wood floor, a ceiling of wood carved and painted in 
lozenge patterns, and cornices prettily painted in blue 
and brown. A row of men on their hands and knees 
were scrubbing the floor with soap and water, using 
the painted wooden bowls, and groups of women were 
kneeling about the confessionals, either confessing or 
waiting for the priests. 

In the garden I was accosted by a very respectable 
man, who offered to show me the town. He was, I 
afterward learned, one of the first citizens of the place, 
a planter, dealer in iron, and a man of means. Uru- 
apan, lying in the foothills, is splendidly watered, a 
noble though artificial stream (at least with artificial 
banks) rushing through the suburbs, and pouring 
abundant life into the blooming valley. Indeed, it is 
the water of Uruapan that makes it widely famous as 
a garden of delight. We went down to the river, and 
followed it where it is diverted into several channels 
through the coffee plantations. Here, in the dense 
shade of bananas and other fruit-trees, gsleamed the red 
berries, and here were the African huts embowered in 
the luxuriant foliage. In these cool retreats life was " 
simple— men, women, and children were bathing in 
the canal, regardless of a censorious world. 

We also found on our walk a thriving cotton mill, 
conducted by a Scotchman, employing some two hun- 
dred operatives, and turning out common sheeting, 
which sells here for a much higher price than fine cot- 
ton cloth in the States; the cotton costs the manu- 
facturer much more than he would have to pay for 
a much better quality in New Orleans. I understood 


TCZINTCZUNTCZAN 379 


him to say that the Mexican cotton was generally 
inferior to ours. 

My very civil and obliging guide invited me to 
his house —a substantial residence, half dwelling- 
house and half shop, the court bright with flowers and 
decorated with specimens of the Uruapan lacquered 
ware — and introduced me to his family. I was in- 
formed that the house and all it contained was mine. 
It was a very warm day, and after our long stroll one 
of the cooling Mexican drinks, say an orange sherbet, 
would have been enjoyable. But my hospitable enter- 
tainer did not offer me even a glass of water. 

Santiago was a character. I donot know what his 
Mexican speech was, but his American was the most 
curious mosaic of slang and profanity I ever heard. 
He informed me, as we sat that evening in the paseo 
listening to the music in the lighted and thronged 
church, —it being the eve of St. Joseph’s Day, —that 
he was on that sort of thing himself: he had just 
been baptized. His reasons for this step, since he 
had no respect for the priests and no knowledge of 
the Catholic religion, were not clear; but as he had 
been ill recently, for the first time in his life, and 
likely to die, I suppose he thought he might as well 
take all the chances. The ceremony had not changed 
his conversation or his mode of life, which he freely 
opened to me, but he appeared to think there might 
be safety in it. ‘ The priest told me,” Santiago 
rambled on, “that if I would be baptized, I would 
be just as if I had been born over; all that I had done 
would be clean rubbed out. He gave me a lot of 
Spanish to learn, catechism and all that; but I 


380 MEXICAN NOTES 


could n’t do it, and I just told him that I could n’t 
get on to all that Bible racket. Never mind, he 
said, if I only believed so and so [it was the sub- 
stance of the Apostles’ Creed that was required], and 
I told him I reckoned I did. When I was going to 
be baptized, I said, ‘ Look a-here, I can’t go this 
confession business; I don’t want to tell you all 
the mean things I ’ve done —and I ’ve done some 
mighty mean things— or all the mean things 1’m 
going to do.’ He said I could make it general; I’d 
already owned up I was a big sinner; if I was bap- 
tized, all that would be taken away. Then | hap- 
pened to think, and [I said, ‘ There is one little thing 
that is on my mind: there’s a Jew dealer up here 
in Zamora that I owe seven dollars and a half for 
clothes. I guess I was cheated, but I felt kind of 
uneasy about it when I was sick.’ And the priest 
said, ‘ That don’t count; when you are baptized, you 
are a new man, just as if you had been born again, 
and you don’t owe that Jew any seven dollars and a 
half.” That is what the priest said. I don’t know 
anything about it.” y 
Notwithstanding his varied life, Santiago had the 
cowboy’s notion of “square dealing,” and I found 
that he had a reputation among the merchants of 
the town for business integrity. It was this, in his 
opinion, that distinguished him from the Mexican 
community. Nor did this borderer altogether lack 
sentiment. ‘The place of all the world I’d like to 
see,” he said, as we looked at the moonlight through 
the lace-like foliage, “is Italy. I’ve just been reading 
‘The Last Days of Pompey.’ I’d like to go to Italy.” 


POCZINTCZUNEGZA N: 381 


The next morning we were to start surely at five 
o’clock, in order to pass the hot plain before the sun 
beat down on it, and to be well on our fifty-mile 
ride in the cool of the day. Mr. Pablo Plata insisted 
on that, and arrangements were made accordingly. 
When I awoke, it was half-past six, the mozo had the 
horses saddled, but Mr. Plata was still asleep, and 
there was no sign of coffee. When Mr. Plata was 
aroused, he said that he would start at once, but 
while I was getting my coffee, he and the mozo, San 
Francisco, would step across the plaza to mass. It was 
St. Joseph’s Day, andit would be very unlucky, indeed 
dangerous, to those on the journey without mass. 

The morning was fresh, a breeze stirred the trees 
in the plaza, birds were singing ; women had set up 
their coffee and bread stands for those early astir, 
women with ribosas over their heads were going to 
mass, servants were sauntering to market to buy a few 
centavos’ worth of milk, meat, and vegetables. At 
the fonda the horses and mules were being saddled. 
In the courtyard, out of their close apartments, ap- 
peared muleteers, drummers, a party of sleepy Mex- 
ican ladies who had taken refuge there the night 
before, and a big Indian in Mexican costume, heavy- 
faced, surly, but looked up to with immense respect 
as the richest man in all that region. It was nearly an 
hour before my comrades returned from mass, and 
eight o’clock when we clattered over the rough pave- 
ments out of town. 

We returned by the way we came, a route much 
traveled by horsemen, and long trains of burros and 
mules, each with two big packs of sugar or cotton. 


382 MEXICAN NOTES 


The only vehicle seen was the creaking cart, the heavy 
wheels of which were solid, constructed of three pieces 
of wood wedged together, the axle turning with the 
wheels. As the mozo had neglected to put up a 
lunch, we breakfasted with our friends at Ziracuari- 
tiro. The whole of the hospitable family assisted in 
preparing this meal, scraping the cheese, mashing the 
corn, and stirring the tomato and other ingredients, 
and I very unwisely witnessed the operations. But 
the result was a capital breakfast. When it was over, 
the mother asked me to change the two-real piece of 
money I had given her son, as she thought it was too 
smooth to pass readily. A touch of thrift makes all 
the world kin. 

At sundown we rode into the streets of Patzcu- 
aro, thanks to the easy gait of our horses, very little 
fatigued by the ride. 

Here, as well as anywhere else, these random notes 
on Mexico might as well end. It is a country with a 
marvelous climate, extraordinary natural beauty, full 
of novelty and interest to the traveler. It is a land 
of much politeness, amiability, and graciousness of 
manner. Its civilization has many points worthy 
of imitation. Its government, however, is, as I said, 
the most purely personal of any with which I am 
acquainted, and offers, as at present conducted, the 
least invitation to foreign capital or enterprise. And 
if any one desires to see the depressing outcome of 
miscegenation, he will do well to travel through it. 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 











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THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


not buy Southern California when I was there in 

March, 1877, and sell it out the same month. I 
should have made enough to pay my railway fare 
back, and purchase provisions to last through the 
deserts of sand and feeding-places, and had money left 
to negotiate for one of the little States on the Atlantic 
coast, and settle down in such plain living and civili- 
zation as it might afford. It was all offered to me, 
but I hesitated, and before the end of the month it 
was beyond my reach. There is not much of it, little 
more than what you may call a strip of irrigated sand 
between the Mohave Desert and the Pacific Ocean ; 
and if you do not secure a portion of it now, it will 
be forever beyond your means. For there is but one 
California in the world (one ought to know this, after 
hearing it a hundred times a day), and everybody 
“‘ has got to have” some of it. There is nowhere else 
to go in the winter. Travelers who have been in 
Southern Italy, in North Africa, in Sicily, in Florida, 
in Greece, in Madeira, in Jamaica, in Bogota, in the 
Piny Woods, are perfectly open in telling you this. 
There is no climate like it. But it is rapidly going 
into the hands of investors, climate and all. If the 
present expectations of transferring half-frozen East- 
ern and Northern people there by the railway com- 
panies and land-owners are half realized, Southern 

25 


|: has been a subject of regret ever since that I did 


386 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


California, in its whole extent, will soon present the 
appearance of a mass-meeting, each individual fight- 
ing for a lot and for his perpendicular section of cli- 
mate. In a year, perhaps in six months from now, 
you might as well attempt to buy a plot in London 
city, near the Bank, on which to set out an orange 
grove and some pepper-trees, as to get a foothold in 
the Garden of the World. I am not an alarmist, but 
I have seen London, and I know what its climate is 
in winter. Itis sufficient to hint to prudent folks that 
there are many people in the world, that there is but 
one California, and that there is not room enough in 
it for all. Somebody is going to be left out. 

There is nothing that will grow anywhere in the 
world — except, perhaps, certain great staples — that 
will not grow there in greater abundance and perfec- 
tion: oranges, lemons, limes, peaches, nectarines, 
grapes, figs, almonds, olives, Madeira nuts, every edi- 
ble vegetable known to woman,— perhaps even grass 
might be raised by constant and excessive irrigation. 
Happening one night into a Pullman smoking-room, 
after days of travel through the Sahara wastes of New _ 
Mexico and Arizona, I chanced to hear fragments of 
a conversation between a man familiar with the region 
and a new-comer, who was evidently a little discour- 
aged by the endless panorama of sand and dry sage- 
brush. 

“« Anything grow along here?” 

“ Everything, sir, everything ; the most produc- 
tive soil on God Almighty’s earth. All it wants is 
water.” 

seal riiits ce 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 387 


“Fruits? I should say so. Every sort that’s 
known. This country right here is going to beat the 
world in fruits.” 

“ Melons?” 

“Well, yes;”’ relapsing into candor and confes- 
sion, “no; the fact is, melons don’t do so well here. 
They ain’t apt to be good. The vines grow so fast 
that the melons are bumped along over the ground 
and bruised.” 

“ Ah?” without any sign of surprise. 

“ Yes,” without a smile, and with evident desire to 
keep back no part of the truth, even if it were an 
afterthought ; “if you want to pick a melon in this 
country, you have to get on horseback.” 

And then the conversation expanded into what 
seemed to me a little exaggeration of the “boom ”’ in 
New Mexico. There is a buoyancy in the air. The 
traveler who has been dragged through the sordid- 
ness, the endless materialism of flat, muddy, or dusty 
land, and shanty-towns, as seen from the railway, of 
Kansas and Nebraska, experiences a certain elevation 
of spirits on coming to the high, barren vastness of 
New Mexico, mostly treeless and verdureless ; a sort 
of clean, wind-swept top of the world, free and out- 
doors, illimitable. The air is like wine. It is a luxury 
to breathe it. The American lungs expand, the pulse 
quickens ; it is necessary to breathe twice as fast as 
in the East, to get oxygen enough to satisfy one. 
One’s whole nature expands. The imagination 1s 
kindled. The tongue is loosened. Here is freedom, 
the real elixir. You see at once that it was a mistake 
ever to expect a good climate with trees and a lush, 


388 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


green vegetation, requiring and giving dampness. 
The mind is enfranchised. The dweller desires to 
speak the truth, the whole truth, to give free play to 
it. Truth becomes buoyant, expansive, hyperbolical. 
It knows no limit of time or space. The difference 
between conversation in the East and in the West is 
that in the latter it is pitched an octave higher. Vast 
spaces, limitless horizons, thin air, clear skies, beget 
a certain largeness of speech. The new-comer, in 
my experience, is more subject to it than the old resi- 
dent, especially if he has invested in a bit-of land, 
which he may or may not want to sell. Human 
nature is the same everywhere, under varying con- 
ditions. Women who talk of the fashions and of 
education in the East speak about real estate in the 
Far West. 

The two pieces of advice that were given me on 
starting for California were, that there I must wear 
always the thickest flannels and the heaviest winter 
suit, and that I must ask no questions about any- 
body’s marital relations. The first was good. The 
second was a humorously malicious allusion to the . 
notion that divorces are as common there as in Chi- 
cago and Connecticut. It was repeatedly impressed 
upon me that the California climate, the best in the 
world, was something that one must get used to. 

From the heights of New Mexico to the Pacific it 
is a land of strange and confusing contrasts, upset- 
ting all one’s preconceived notions of how Nature 
ought toact. At Las Vegas Hot Springs, at an eleva- 
tion of about seven thousand feet, in a barren valley 
inclosed by stony brown hills, in March, there was 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 389 


no sign of spring except here and there a purple wild 
flower in the sand, and yet it somehow looked like 
summer. The sky was turquoise blue, the sun rays 
were warm, the air splendid in quality, elastic and 
inspiring. From the appearance, I should have had 
no doubt that it was summer, — a summer without 
vegetation, —if I had not discovered a snowbank 
under my north window. It was difficult to.conceive 
that one needed an overcoat, or might not lounge in 
the easy-chairs on the broad verandas, unless one 
happened to observe that at ten a. M. the thermometer 
had risen from the freezing-point of sunrise to only 
38°. It was so dry. Everything and everybody was 
electrified. The hotel, sumptuously furnished, heated 
by steam and lighted throughout by electricity, was 
a sort of big dynamo. We could not touch a bit of 
iron, turn on a light, brush against a portiere, or shake 
hands without experiencing a tingling shock. Inside 
and out, it was like being in a place enchanted. It 
was much the same at Santa Fé, — cold, clear, look- 
ing like summer, water freezing in the pitcher at 
night, sky blue by day, purple at sunset, the air so 
tenuous that Old Bald, a snow peak twelve thousand 
feet high, seemed close at hand; and I noticed that 
the moon was thin and had no body, merely a disk 
of silver-paper stuck on the distant sky. 

But it is seldom cold in the Needles and the Mo- 
have Desert, —a shimmering alkaline waste: 85° in 
March, and say 120° to 130 in July. It does not 
matter. The few people in the far-apart stations live 
in houses that have a second detached roof, put on 
like the fly of a tent; and the heated, desolate pas- 


390 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


sage is a providential arrangement to lower the spirits 
of the traveler to the enjoyment of the irrigated coun- 
try recovered from the desert, in Southern California. 
It is a veritable paradise, as really such as the oasis 
of Fayoum in Egypt. Heavens! how the human 
eye does crave the green color; how grateful it is for 
a field of barley, a straight eucalyptus-tree, vines and 
roses clambering over the houses, the lustrous foli- 
age of the orange groves starred with globes of gold ! 
This is Paradise. And the climate? Perpetual sum- 
mer (but daily rising in price). There is no doubt of 
this when you reach the San Gabriel valley, Pasa- 
dena, and Los Angeles. Avenues of eucalyptus, pep- 
per, and orange-trees, two, three, four rows of them, 
seven and eight miles long; vast plowed fields of 
oranges ; the vine-stubs in the grape plantations be- 
ginning to bud ; barley fodder (the substitute for hay) 
well up and verdant ; palmettos and other semi-trop- 
ical plants, and all the flowers, and shrubs, and vines, 
gay, rampant, vigorous, ever-blooming, in dooryards, 
gardens, overrunning trees and houses, — surely it is 
summer. There is snow sprinkled on the bare, ashy .. 
hills, but everywhere in the plain is water, from the 
unfailing mountain springs, running in wooden con- 
duits and ditches. You can buy this water at so much 
an hour. All you need to buy is climate and water, 
— the land is thrown in. It is warm in the sun, — 
the thermometer may indicate 70°; it is even hot, 
walking out through the endless orange plantations 
and gardens that surround Los Angeles; but there 
is a chill the instant you pass into the shade; you 
still need your winter clothing, and if you drive, or 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 391 


ride in the grip-cars over the steep hills, you require 
a winter overcoat. The night temperature through- 
out California is invariably in great contrast to that 
in the daytime; nearly everywhere fire is necessary 
at night the year round, and agreeable nearly all the 
year, even in Southern California. I doubt if it is 
ever pleasant to sit out-of-doors or on the piazzas at 
night, though it may be in the hotter months, in the 
southern portion. But it is very confusing to the 
mind of the new-comer to reconcile his necessity for 
winter clothing to what he sees and almost feels ; in 
short, to get used to the climate. The invalid is 
thrown off his guard by appearances; and I should 
say that there is no country in the world where a 
person needs to use more care about taking cold. 
Yet this must be said: the air is bracing and life- 
giving. I did not, in any part of the State, in walk- 
ing or taking any sort of exercise, feel the least 
fatigue. A “cold,” therefore, for a person in ordi- 
nary health and condition, is not the dragging, nearly 
mortal experience that it is apt to be in the East. 
Then the crowning advantage of the country, even 
if the climate is treacherous and needs watching in 
its effects, is that one can be out-of-doors all the 
time, nearly every day.in the year. Meantime he can 
eat oranges, if he is not particular about the variety, 
and get rich selling prospective or real orange groves 
to Eastern people. But he will never get over the 
surprises and contrasts of the country. We went one 
day, by rail, eighteen miles over the gentle hills, from 
Los Angeles to its lovely seaport of Santa Monica. 
Fine hotel, charming beach and sand bluffs, illimitable 


392 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


Pacific Ocean. It was not a warm day nor a cold day, 
just the ordinary kind of day to sell (I suppose one 
could buy a day’s climate there, or half a day’s, or 
swap off a morning for an afternoon with the real- 
estate brokers, —and every man and woman is a 
real-estate broker), but we wore thick winter cloth- 
ing, and carried overcoats, which occasionally were 
needed. Yet as many as seventy-five sane people 
were bathing in the Pacific Ocean as if it had been 
August! Flowers, fruits, summer bathing, and winter 
overcoats, — you have to get used to it. 

It is a splendid place for invalids. The country 
was full of them. It will be fuller yet, if Los Angeles, 
lovely city of angels, growing like asparagus in a hot- 
bed, already with fifty thousand people, and may be 
ten thousand more in the season, trying to find a 
night’s lodging, never yet having had the least time 
to pay attention to ordinary sanitary precautions, does 
not speedily design some system of drainage out of 
its shut-in valley. But this is a matter of detail. 
And yet it cannot be neglected, for already the 


doctors there have cases of pneumonia, diphtheria, 


and typhoid fever. San Diego, lying mostly on sand 
hills overlooking its magnificent harbor, has already 
appropriated a million and a quarter of dollars for 
drainage, inviting the Waring system. And another 
thing, also a matter of taste as well as of detail: the 
buyer, driving around the city and the country, which 
for thirty miles in any direction is humming with the 
noise of building, and planting, and laying out streets, 
—the hum of populations yet to be, —the buyer, 
amid the myriad signs of “ Real Estate for Sale,” 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES = 393 


ought not to be confronted by so many legends 
of “ Undertakers and Embalmers.”’ It chills ardor. 
Real estate for certain limited purposes, though un- 
limited occupation, we are all reluctant to purchase. 

One of the great uses of New England in the world 
is that of an object lesson for the devotees of the de- 
velopment hypothesis, of the survival of the fittest. 
Southern California offers to illustrate the converse. 
The movement of people thither is, both in quality 
and volume, the most striking phenomenon of mod- 
ern times,—d§in its character a migration perhaps 
unprecedented in history. It quite equals the move- 
“ment of 1849, perhaps surpasses it in speculative ex- 
citement, but its original motion is entirely different. 
There was mixed, in the hegira of 1849 to the west 
coast, a greed for sudden wealth and a spirit of reck- 
less adventure, which recalled the romantic heroism 
of both Jason and Cortez. The present emigration 
is not for adventure at all, and primarily not for gold ; 
it is a pursuit of climate. But naturally, this human 
desire for dwelling in a place genial and tolerant of 
human physical weakness has been taken advantage 
of, and the west coast is the arena of the most gigan- 
tic speculation and inflation known in American 
annals. I cannot conceive that the excitement of ’49 
exceeded this. Wecan well understand why men and 
women, who discover that they have but one life to 
live on this engaging planet, that they are freer than 
plants to change their habitat, and thatall the places in 
the world are not alike inhospitable and not alike 
devoted to the development of the robust virtues, 
should weary of the winters of the North, and of the 


394 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


blizzards and cyclones of the West, and seek a land 
comparatively free from physical anxiety. In the pro- 
cess of natural selection there has been developed a 
great number of people who come to regard climate as 
of more importance than anything else. When to this 
desire is added the advertised advantage of living in 
luxury with comparatively little labor, the migration 
is accounted for. The fact is, besides, that we are a 
poetic people ; notwithstanding the sternness of our 
discipline, we have a good deal of oriental imagina- 
tion, and if you dangle a golden orange before the 
eyes of a Northern man, you can lead him anywhere. 

The Southern California speculator has a reason- 
able, not to say a mathematical, basis. You can figure 
out of our sixty millions of population a certain num- 
ber of invalids and their families, or of people not 
exactly invalids, to whom a genial climate seems the 
most desirable thing, a number large enough to fill 
up Southern California several times over. What in- 
terests the traveler is the inquiry, What will all those 
people now there, and on the way there, do when 
they have sold out all the land to each other, and resold .. 
and resold it at constantly mounting prices, until it is 
beyond purchase, andit is found that no possible crop 
On it can pay a remunerative per cent. on the irrigated 
principle ? What interests the philosopher is the in- 
quiry, What sort of acommunity will ultimately result 
from this union of the Invalid and the Speculator? 
Assuming that Southern California is the best winter 
climate in the republic, and that its product is mainly 
small fruits, given a land as valuable as Wall Street, 
is it not the expectation that this shall be the home 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 395 


of the rich, who must draw upon Eastern accumula- 
tions of capital? Agriculture is now the dependence 
there of labor, for at present coal is so high as to for- 
bid profitable manufacturing. How are the laboring 
people to live? I was told, in a certain region, that 
there were at least a thousand dressmakers and mil- 
liners, who had gone there expecting to live by their 
trades, who found the ground completely occupied, 
and were filling the positions of chambermaids.and 
other servants, glad to get any sort of work by which 
they could live. Many a man, who went there with a 
little money, expecting to enrich himself by specula- 
tion, or to own that gold mine, an orange grove, has 
had his lesson, and is glad to earn the means of sub- 
sistence by grooming or driving horses. It begins to 
be said with frequency, ‘‘ This is no place for a poor 
man.” 

If it is true that the quantity of land open to pur- 
chase is very limited, as the intending buyer is con- 
stantly told, and limited because of the difficulty of 
irrigating the adjacent desert, there is also at present 
an artificial limitation on account of the ownership 
of vast tracts, ranches of from twenty thousand to 
one hundred thousand acres, by investors and spec- 
ulators and railway corporations. California — one 
hears that already —is practically in the hands of a 
few rich men. It is not literally true, but vast land- 
ownership is certainly a feature of this Eldorado. 

There is an undeniable fascination about the west 
coast for most persons. Probably the temporary 
sojourner, however much he may be pleased with 
certain qualities of the climate, and however deeply 


396 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


he may be interested in the abnormal state of things, 
declares, if he is in health, that nothing would induce 
him to live there. Possibly a majority of those who 
go there think they go temporarily, for the winter, 
or to make easily a little money. It is a common ex- 
perience, throughout the State, to dislike the life, the 
society, the whole thing, at first, and then to become as 
violently attached to it as a place of residence. Some- 
thing is apt to draw people back who have been there 
once: perhaps the climate, or the untrammeled life, 
or a certain expensiveness congenial to the American 
mind. 

I do not know whether the English language is 
exactly adapted to Southern California. It seems to 
me too tame and literal to express the exuberant 
growth of that region. At any rate, the real-estate 
people call in the aid of art and music. Brass bands, 
heading the processions to auction sales of city lots 
in the outlying deserts, excite the buyer to frenzy ; 
and seductive paintings, a vast broadside of boards 
erected at the railway stations, — pictures of vine- 
yards, orchards, lofty rose-covered houses and de- 
lectable hills, — appeal to the most stolid visitor. 
Indeed, our language is too poor to do justice to the 
prolific powers of nature, to say nothing of the pro- 
lific invention of man. Jack’s Beanstalk is not a 
myth, but simply an illustration. We are accus- 
tomed to regard the tree as a slow, laborious pro- 
duct of nature. I do not say that in California the 
forest tree is an annual, but if you plant eucalyptus 
saplings, you will have in three or four years a fine, 
stately grove, from which firewood is cut; and very 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 397 


good firewood this fat tree makes. I was shown a 
big stump of a eucalyptus-tree in a Los Angeles 
garden, which the owner had cut down because it 
was too near the house. It was ninety feet high, and 
he had planted the sapling only seven years before. 

Possibly Southern California should be described 
as a garden rather than an agricultural region. The . 
most considerable plantations I saw were of vine- - 
yards and orange groves. The vineyards were on © 
flat, irrigated land, vineyards sometimes six hundred 
acres in extent. There is no doubt that the yield of 
grapes is prolific. There is also no doubt that nearly 
every kind of wine known to the market is made 
from the same field, — hock, claret, burgundy, cham- 
pagne; wine sweet as cordials and sour as vinegar ; 
wines white, red, and golden. Quantity is the thing 
aimed at. Good wine is produced here and there. I 
did not happen upon any in the hotels or vineyards 
of Southern California, but I tasted of a good bottle 
in San Francisco. I question if choice, fine wines 
will ever be produced on the rich flats ; certainly not 
by the present wholesale system of cultivation, — 
getting the most possible from the acre. It is prob- 
able that the best wine grapes will be grown in the 
foothills, where the producer, for the sake of quality, 
will be content with a yield of a quarter of the pre- 
sent quantity per acre. I doubt not that if a man 
were to limit his vineyard to fifty acres, which he 
could properly cultivate, and the product of which 
he could properly take care of, he would get a much 
better result as to quality of wine than he gets from 
two hundred acres, and that his profit would be 


398 THE GOLDEN “HESPERIDESs 


greater. The science of wine- growing and handling 
is still little regarded. The effort is to obtain the 
greatest quantity of juice, and the manipulation and 
manufacture of sorts from the same juice is, I was 
told, becoming common, though perhaps not yet as 
universal as in France, where we get now almost no 
wine in the bottle answering to the name on the 
label. 

The orange-tree is very prolific in Southern Cali- 
fornia. I do not know why the best varieties would 
not grow there. There is, of course, as much dif- 
ference between oranges as between apples. The 
attractive golden outside is a constant deception, the 
cover of an unpleasant surprise. I found at Las 
Vegas a delicious orange, not very large, fine skin, 
firm, lively pulp, melting in the mouth, with little 
remaining fiber; sweet, but not with the insipid 
sweetness of so many of the Havana oranges, — 
very like the Malta oranges. It came from Herma- 
silla,in Mexico. I searched diligently in California, 
but I did not find in any hotel, market, chance ped- 
dler’s basket, or grove any orange to compare with 
this. Nearly all of them were sharply acrid. There 
is a kind called the Navel, much praised. But it 
was sour, wherever I came across it. Oranges were 
in great abundance. Perhaps I was unfortunate in 
not finding any in perfection. But I ate those which 
were praised, and the variety which I was informed 
had taken the premium in competition with those 
of Florida. All had the same sourness; and I con- 
cluded that the grafts must have come from Sicily 
or Southern Italy, where a really sweet, luscious 


Lib) GOLDEN HESPERIDES 399 


orange is rare. I know that this is a matter of taste ; 
that Californians ate their own oranges and said they 
liked them, and seemed hurt when I sometimes 
asked for a lemon, to “take the taste out.” I hope 
the experiment will be made with other varieties, for 
I desire to believe that California can produce the 
best oranges in the world. 

In some fruits California certainly excels. The 
small olives have the nutty sweetness of those grown 
in Southern France; and I ate raisins, made from 
grapes grown in a little valley back of San Diego, 
which were, in my experience with this wholesome 
article of food, incomparably fine. With more care- 
ful cultivation and attention to best varieties, I see 
no reason why this region cannot supply the rest of 
the United States with abundance of small fruits 
and nuts which will be preferred to those now im- 
ported. 

The success of this gardening and fruit-raising, 
however, must depend largely upon the price the 
cultivator finally pays for his land, for the competi- 
tion will be with countries where land is cheap and 
wages are low. It would not pay to raise pears in 
Wall Street. I do not mean to say that the small 
industries of husbandry are neglected ; irrigation and 
planting keep pretty even pace with surveying, auc- 
tioneering, and building. But at present the leading 
industry is the selling of real estate, — it is about the 
only thing talked of. In the six months previous to 
March, 1887, the price of real estate in the region 
of Los Angeles and Pasadena had advanced four hun- 
dred per cent. A lady went out one morning by 


400 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


rail from Los Angeles to Pasadena, where she took 
carriage for the ordinary drive round the country, 
through Baldwin’s thirty-thousand-acre ranch. As 
she was starting an agent asked her if she did not 
want to buy a lot, —they peddle lots like oranges ; 
he could offer her a bargain of a small building lot 
for fifty dollars. The lady said she didn’t mind 
making a little investment (the air is so stimulating, 
the orange blossoms are so intoxicating, there is 
such a noise of building and hammering everywhere, 
and there are so many invalids from Maine and New 
Hampshire, sitting in the rose-covered porches of 
their little cottages), and she took the lot and paid 
for it. On her return in the afternoon, the same 
agent met her, and asked her if she did not want to 
sell her lot. She replied that she was perfectly will- 
ing to sell at a fair price — her drive had been rather 
dusty, and she had seen a good deal of apparently 
unoccupied ground. The agent offered her two hun- 
dred dollars, and she handed back the lot and took 
the money, and went home to her dinner. The story 
has no affidavit attached to it, but it is not an exag- 
geration of daily occurrences. 

In front of San Diego and forming its beautiful 
harbor lies Coronado Beach, an island of sand, some- 
thing like two miles long and half a mile broad, with 
a curved tongue of beach along the Pacific, a superb 
bathing and driving-place. ‘This sand-heap had been 
bought by a company, all staked out in building 
lots, with shrubs planted at the corners, a shanty or 
two erected, and from November to March seven 
hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of lots 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 401 
had been sold. How much cash had been paid I do 


not know. The island is reached by a ferry ; water 
has been carried over, a line of railway crosses the 
island, and on the ocean side, with a beautiful pros- 
pect of gray hills framing the bay and the sparkling 
Pacific, foundations were being laid for a hotel which 
was to be the largest in the country (the reader 
understands that everything is the largest and every 
view is the finest in the world), twice as big as the 
Raymond at Pasadena. The house is to be ready 
for occupation this winter, and I hear that its rooms 
are all engaged, and furthermore, that the sale of land 
on the island is already reckoned at over two millions 
of dollars. A friend of mine, who during the last 
half-dozen years or so has been gradually investing 
forty or fifty thousand dollars in San Diego lots, told 
me that they would any day bring half a million. I 
do not mean to say that everybody in Southern 
California is rich,— perhaps the majority are hav- 
ing a hard struggle for existence, — but everybody 
expects to be rich to-morrow. It gives one a feeling 
of the rapid accumulation of property merely to hear 
the ordinary conversation. But it is scarcely a restful 
feeling, and I must confess that for me the atmos- 
phere of this sunny and flowery land would be more 
agreeable if I could escape the uneasy sensation that 
the first duty of man is to buy a lot. 

Certainly it was not a restful place. The railways 
swarmed with excursion trains, the cars were crowded, 
and it was difficult to get a seat. The towns over- 
flowed with speculators, invalids, and travelers; it 
was not easy to obtain accommodations in hotels even 

/ 26 


402 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


by applying days in advance. Los Angeles secured 
temporary relief by getting up a small-pox scare, and 
hanging out on various houses about town danger 
flags, and this sent thousands to the neighboring 
villages. Owing partially to the sudden influx of 
settlers and visitors, the post-office service was com- 
pletely demoralized. The government refused to 
employ clerks enough to do the business; as a con- 
sequence the post offices, as at Los Angeles, were 
closed more than half the time for assorting and re- 
directing letters, and during the few open hours long 
cues of people waited a chance at the windows. It 
required a long time to procure access to the open 
office, to register a letter or to inquire for one. By 
chance a letter might be delivered promptly; by 
chance it might lie in the office a week. The em- 
ployees were worked to death. Very soon I gave up 
all expectation of getting letters with any regularity 
or promptness. This was, of course, largely the fault 
of the government, — though the closing of the 
post offices generally for several hours each day 
seems a relic of the Spanish-Mexican habit. But the 
annoyance about the telegraph is due solely to the 
fact that one company has a monopoly. In New 
Mexico and Southern California the service was 
intolerably vexatious. Messages were missent, lost, 
thrown into the waste-basket, delayed. There was 
no remedy, little spirit of accommodation, generally 
carelessness and often insolence in the employees. 
Yet the climate remains, with the extraordinary 
fertility of the irrigated land, the strange beauty of 
sunny valleys and brown, savage mountain spurs. 


THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 403 


The beauty of turf, the abundant spontaneous vege- 
tation, and the wonderful wealth of New England 
landscape in summer it does not approach; but it 
has a loveliness of its own, partly due to contrast 
with the surrounding and encroaching desert, but 
also to the sun, the genial air, and the fruits, flowers, 
and semi-tropical suggestions of a perpetual summer. 
The grandiose scenery of the Far West — great 
wastes, gigantic mountains, fantastic freaks of a nature 
worn out with age and violence — reminds one of 
Spain. Southern California, with something of this 
character, has a softer attractiveness, and the inhab- 
itants like to say it is Italian. Sierra Madre Villa, 
nestled amid vineyards and fruit groves on the side 
of a mountain, with a glimpse of the ocean twenty 
miles distant, certainly suggests Southern Italy ; but 
no man who has not bought a lot can lay his hand on 
his heart, and say that there is here-«the picturesque- 
ness of the Sorrentine promontory, or the atmos- 
pheric color. The region should be content to be its 
glorious self, and unlike any other part of the United 
States. 

I should think that the camel would become this 
landscape, and I know that the ostrich looks more 
or less at home. I saw an ostrich farm, where the 
birds lay eggs at a dollar and a half apiece, and 
shed plumes at a reasonable price, with no improve- 
ment to their appearance. The ostrich is an inter- 
esting animal, with his exaggerated, stately strut, his 
long snake-like neck, the head carried haughtily and 
parallel with the ground, the big, supercilious eyes 
looking straight along the flat, soft bill. A proces- 


4044 THE GOLDEN HESPERIDES 


sion of these birds is even comical. They are denied, - 
apparently, the pleasures of the palate in eating, | 
everything going whole into the best digestive appa- — 
ratus known to the physiologists. It is a recreation — 
to see one dispose of an orange. It passes easily — 
into the capacious mouth ; then the ostrich stretches f 
and twists the long neck, and the round fruit is trace-_ 

able, slowly making its way down, round and round, 
a solid lump, until it disappears. If the bird could 
only taste the fruit in its progress, his capacity of 

enjoyment would be envied. | 

Traces of the old Spanish life are rapidly disap- 

pearing, but may still be seen at such a ranch and 
hacienda as that of Comulos (the scene of “ Ramona”), © 
and lingering still in Santa Barbara. At this place, 
besides a few dwellings in the Spanish style, exists — 
a refined Spanish society. Santa Barbara, lying in a 
valley opening southward to the Pacific, with nooks © 
and cafions among the hills, of wild and almost 
incomparable beauty, does strongly suggest a sort of 
Italy. The character and color of the great moun-' 
tain that shuts it in on the left hand, looking seaward, 
are very Italian. The railway has not yet reached | 
it, and the situation, the air, the equable climate, — 
genial in winter and not too warm in summer,— 
something reposeful and secluded, gave me great 
content to be there. As I think of it with longing, © 
at the approach here of snow and storm, I cannot but © 
regret that so many days and deserts lie between it 
and the East. a 


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